


Home Is

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - It's a Terrible Life (Supernatural), Bobby Singer is Dean Winchester's Parent, Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel (Supernatural), Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Gay Sex, Homeless Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Pansexual Castiel (Supernatural), Road Trips, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Abruptly terminated from his all-encompassing job at Sandover Bridge & Iron, company man Dean Smith makes a spur of the moment decision to embark on a cross-country roadtrip to "find himself." And if he's going, why not ask along the strangely attractive but down-on-his-luck homeless guy who's been sleeping outside Sandover's building? He looks like he needs some help finding himself, too. The hell with it, Dean's tired of playing by the rules, and playing alone. Little does he know, Castiel may be just what he needs.





	1. Home is Not Here

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed a palate cleanser from my bangs - this is shameless indulgent fluff and romance and smut, basically an excuse to send Dean & Cas in their AU forms across the country in a Prius.

Every day, on the walk from the gated lot where he parks his car to the front entrance of Sandover Bridge & Iron, Dean Smith passes by three things. The first is the security guard who mans the little booth at the entrance to the parking area. He’s always sitting there, armed with a friendly wave when Dean gets in, and a warm smile when he leaves at the end of the day. Dean can’t quite figure that one out since he’s usually at work earlier than his co-workers and tends to leave after everyone else has gone, but there it is. 

The second thing is the coffee stall where Dean faithfully buys two things; the pastry of the day, and a hot cup of coffee. The pastries aren’t doing anything for the six-pack he’s been steadily chiseling away at for the last few months, but considering the rest of his day is all watered down cayenne pepper and dry salads, he figures he deserves it. _And who the fuck is the supposed “Master” who invented this cleanse, anyway?_ Dean’s starting to suspect it’s mostly bullshit, laxative effects aside.

The third thing isn’t so neatly tucked into a nice little box of habit and quirk. In fact, it’s not a thing at all, but a person. For the last three weeks or so, the third thing Dean reliably passes on his way into work is a homeless man who has apparently set up camp in a nook at the edge of Sandover’s building. He’s rarely awake when Dean passes, most often tucked inside a ratty sleeping bag so tightly that only his knit hat can be seen, but he’s always there. He’s got a canvas pack that he sleeps curled around, and Dean can only assume it contains the few worldly belongings he possesses. Dean feels bad for the guy, but he wonders why he doesn’t ever _go_ anywhere, or _do_ anything. 

_Well, hell,_ Dean thinks. _Maybe he does, but our work schedules just don’t line up._ Regardless, Dean tries not to judge, but he doesn’t reach out either. His eyes skate over the lumpy, sleeping form as he strolls by day after day with his coffee in hand, and he keeps on moving. He wonders why Sandover’s security hasn’t taken notice and removed the guy yet, but on the other hand, he knows for a fact that most of those guys are nicer than they probably ought to be to the riffraff that clutters the city streets adjacent to Sandover Bridge & Iron. 

It’s perhaps four weeks after the man appeared, as Dean’s mentally reviewing his schedule for the day _and_ shoving half of a scone into his mouth, that he notices that the man is sitting up. His sleeping bag is rolled up neatly beside him, and he’s sitting with his legs crossed, brushing his teeth using a battered plastic bottle of water and a styrofoam cup. Dean does a double-take, not sure whether he’s more surprised to see the guy _awake,_ or that he’s using a _cup_ to spit his toothpaste into. _This has to be the most considerate homeless guy on the planet_ , he thinks. 

Dean’s eyes dart up from the cup to the man’s face, and despite being a little dirty and fringed with the kind of rough peach fuzz you get from not having access to grooming materials, Dean’s mouth goes a little dry. The man’s _young,_ younger than he expected, probably around his age, maybe a couple of years older, if he had to guess. And not only that, but he’s not unattractive, beneath the dirt and scruff, perhaps even _because_ of it. His blue eyes are bright and sharp, the lines around them kind, _deep_ like he’s laughed a lot, like he’s lived a good life so far. And while that makes Dean curious, it's also hard for him to imagine, present circumstances considered. As Dean takes him in, the man looks up and meets his gaze, making him flush and look quickly away. Realizing he’s being rude, he turns back and gives a halfhearted little wave. The man grins and raises a hand in return, his toothbrush still held between two fingers, and Dean feels like an _idiot._ Or as his dad would say, _an idjit._

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way to Sandover’s front door. “Waving at him like some kind of moron.” He shakes his head and steps through the security systems, waving hello to the receptionist and taking the elevator up to his office. He makes a conscious decision not to think about the man anymore, because something about him, about how he _wasn’t_ what Dean expected, makes his entire existence difficult to cope with. Not to mention the fact that the guy was probably hungry, and there Dean was scarfing down a fucking _scone_ as if it wasn’t the most pretentious food on the planet. _“Fucking idjit,”_ he mutters again as he unlocks his office, drawing a strange glance from his secretary as she strides past. 

“Dean, Mr. Adler would like to see you, when you’re settled,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Thanks, Becky,” he murmurs.

And that was that. Dean has a busy day ahead of him, and no time for his thoughts to dwell on the homeless man who apparently lives outside his office building. When he leaves at nine-thirty that night, the man isn’t there. Dean does his best to push down the strange feeling of disappointment he feels and puts him firmly out of his mind. He drives to the gym and works out for an hour before heading home and collapsing into bed, his mind blissfully blank.

***

It’s late fall in Ohio and the weather is just starting to get reliably cold. Overnight, it goes from “a nip in the air” to an inescapable layer of ice covering the ground that Dean slips on as he makes his way to his Prius in the morning. As he hurries from the employee parking lot towards the coffee stand, he can see that the homeless man is awake again, and shivering. He’s tucked inside his sleeping bag with only the ratty knit cap and his eyes showing, but the bag is shaking rhythmically as if he’s been set atop a washing machine. When Dean reaches the front of the line, it’s hardly a tough decision to order two large coffees and two pastries. He pays and turns around, strolling confidently up to the man and pausing in front of him. 

“Uh, here,” he says awkwardly, thrusting out the coffee and pastry, almost dropping his own as he fumbles to keep hold of everything in his hands. The homeless man’s bright blue eyes blink up at him in confusion, the thick sleeping bag drooping away from the bottom of his face as he turns his head skyward. 

“These are for me?” Dean’s surprised to find that the man’s voice is low and rough and god help him, _sexy_ as hell, and it distracts him from the abject sadness that the guy is apparently surprised anyone would offer him a simple comfort like a three dollar coffee.

“Sure, man, yea,” he replies, flashing him a grin and getting a small one in return. The man reaches up and takes the items, and Dean can’t help but notice that his winter coat is more suited for fall, patchy on the elbows and not nearly heavy enough for a day like this, never mind the cold that’s coming. Dean watches as he tucks himself back inside the sleeping bag and groans as he wraps his hands around the cup, shucking the cardboard sleeve so that he can feel the warmth without any barrier.

“That’s incredible,” the man murmurs, eyelids fluttering shut momentarily. “Thank you, uh…” His eyes open again and he sticks his hand out, waiting expectantly. Dean blinks and stares for a moment before realizing that he’s expecting a _name,_ internally cursing himself for being an idiot once again.

“It’s Dean,” he finally says lamely, shifting his coffee so that he can reach out and take the man’s hand. His grip is firm and friendly, his fingers warm from where they’ve been clutching the cup. 

“Castiel,” the man replies, holding Dean’s gaze steady. “Everyone calls me Cas.” 

“Everyone?” Dean blurts out before quickly realizing what he sounds like, his eyes widening in horror. _God, this guy must think he’s such an asshole._

But Castiel only laughs, loud and genuine as he throws his head back, the small smile he’s been offering stretching to a grin that makes Dean’s knees go a little weak. _Is he really out here crushing on a homeless guy? What is wrong with him?_ Dean clears his throat and steps back, almost running into his boss as he does. Zachariah stumbles a little and overcompensates to right himself, dropping his rolled briefcase to the ground as he does. 

“Mr. Adler,” Dean says apologetically, scrambling to pick up the briefcase and set his very important, very _temperamental_ boss back on his path. “My apologies, sir, I was just—” 

“Socializing with street scum?” Zachariah fills in the blank for him, and Dean can’t think of a snappy comeback that won’t get him his security access revoked before noon so he just stands there, gaping like a fish. “Never mind,” his boss snaps. “I need to speak with you urgently, Smith, so if you wouldn’t mind wrapping up this little meeting of the minds, I’ll see you in my office in fifteen.” 

Dean nods his understanding. “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll be right behind you.” What he _should_ do is follow Zachariah in and not piss him off further, but the idea of simply walking away from _Cas_ as if he doesn’t matter, as if _Dean_ thinks those awful things about him too, sits sour in his stomach, and he can’t even blame the uneaten pastry. Zachariah stalks away, shooting a final glare over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in Cas’ direction, and Dean doesn’t like the look of that at all. 

Once he disappears inside the doors to the Sandover building, Dean turns back to the homeless man and lets out his breath in a rush. “Sorry about that,” he says, not entirely sure why he’s apologizing, but feeling obligated to nonetheless. Castiel just shrugs though, and sips his coffee, as if that type of interaction is all in a day for him, and Dean realizes, it probably is. He clears his throat and steps forward, towering over Cas once again. “Look, man, I don’t want to offend you but it’s really fucking cold out here. You want the other coffee too?” 

Castiel’s blue eyes get even brighter with delight as he stretches his hand out again immediately. “My toes are extremely grateful,” he says. “This is the warmest I’ve been in ages. You’re very sweet.” Dean hands over his second pastry as well, and the corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkle.

“Sorry, it isn’t more substantial,” Dean apologizes, and he truly is. 

“It’s perfect, Dean,” Castiel replies, and his expression is so genuine that Dean feels terrible for ignoring him for so long. If he hadn’t received such strict orders from Zachariah, he’d duck out and take the guy to a real lunch or something, somewhere warm and with actual food. He doubts Castiel has any interest in his Cleanse. 

“Anyway,” he says, “I should…” He jerks a thumb towards the doors behind him and starts stepping away. Castiel doesn’t try to stop him, just raises a hand like he had the other day and smiles. 

“Thank you, Dean,” he says softly. “See you around.” 

Dean thinks his tone sounds as if he’s sure he won’t.

***

The charts strewn across Zachariah’s desk when Dean walks in are extremely familiar, and instantly, his stomach twists in knots. They’re from the Roman Enterprises account, the one Dean had been working on for over a month when Zachariah asked him to rush it to completion last week. Something about the look on his boss’ face, combined with the almost accusatory way the papers are spread out, tells Dean that this is not going to be an easy conversation. Too bad he has no idea what the hell he did wrong.

“Have a seat, Dean,” Zachariah says, motioning to the dual leather-covered office chairs (Dean’s own set are vinyl, but nothing about Zachariah is _cheap)_ facing his desk. He does, and waits patiently to hear what his boss has to say. “As you know, the Roman Enterprises account was pivotal for our numbers this quarter. The sales we rely on from them alone were supposed to make up thirty percent of our income. Counting on that, the senior partners made several decisions regarding Capital spending that can’t be rescinded now.” Dean nods, still confused how this affects him and unsure where the conversation is going. He worked _hard_ on the Roman account and did good work for them, he’s confident of that.

Zachariah selects a particular printout and slides it across the desk so that Dean can read it. “Do you recall the details of the final order they placed with you?”

Dean blinks. It’s been over a month since the phone conversation with the Senior VP of purchasing at Roman, so that’s kind of unfair. He sold them all kinds of things for the new complex they’re building in southern Ohio, most of it beams and various custom ironwork. All of those items have number/letter codes that are ten characters long, Zachariah can’t possibly be asking if he remembers _those,_ can he? _No one_ remembers those codes, that’s why they have a damn ordering system. 

“Uh, if I could just refer back to the order sheet,” he starts, but Zachariah waves him off, tapping at the paper in front of him. 

“This _is_ the order sheet, Smith,” he growls. “With your signature on the bottom of it.”

“I’m… I’m not sure I’m following, sir,” Dean wavers, glancing down at the paper and not immediately seeing a problem. He scans its contents and recalls entering each order exactly as it appears. It had been a _huge_ day for him, the biggest sale he’d closed yet, and while he might not remember the _codes,_ he remembers the products, and the sheet looks correct.

“Mr. Roman called me this morning at _home_ to report that the bulk delivery we attempted to make this morning to their construction site was _rejected.”_ Zachariah spits out the words as if they taste bad. He taps the paper again with his index finger, the tip of it going white with the pressure. “Both Roman and his Purchasing VP _insist_ they ordered _these.”_ Zachariah produces a second ordering sheet, this one incomplete, the kind that a client like Roman could have printed off in their own office. Dean looks down and furrows his brow.

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “No, I’d remember. I upsold them on the quality here, here, and here.” He points out the relevant products. “There’s a contract—they _signed,”_ he reminds Zachariah and his boss nods grimly, producing the stack of papers in question and pushing them forward. 

“I compared them,” he says. “The contract has the products Roman listed, not the ordering sheet you entered.” Dean sits quietly for a moment staring down at the paperwork in front of him. His mind spins and his forehead furrows as he tries to grasp what he’s being told.

“You understand what this looks like, son?” Zachariah’s tone has shifted, and he _almost_ sounds kind. Dean looks up, still completely baffled.

“Like I upsold them without clearing it,” he replies, shaking his head vehemently. “But, sir, I didn’t, you have to believe me. I would never do that! The ordering system shouldn’t even let me, it requires a dual-auth—”

Zachariah cuts him off with a sweep of his hand as he collects the various papers in front of them. “Frankly, it doesn’t matter what you _think_ is possible, Dean,” he says. “The outcome here is that Roman pulled the order in its entirety. So not only did we lose the sale _and_ a likely repeat customer, we’re now stuck with a ton of custom cut metal we can’t do anything with.

Dean straightens in his chair and unconsciously fixes his tie. “I’ll make this right, sir. I’ll call and apologize to Roman myself, correct the order, I’ll take full responsibility.” 

With a sigh, Zachariah leans forward with his elbows on his desk. “I already have someone doing that, Dean. That isn’t why I called you here.” Dean stares for a moment, waiting, before the implications behind Zachariah’s words sink in.

“No, Mr. Adler, I had no idea, I—” 

He gets cut off again, and this time Zachariah sounds pretty fed up. “That’s _exactly_ the problem, Dean. I’m sorry. We have a shot at retaining Roman Enterprises, but only if we fully rectify this mistake, and for that to happen, I have to let you go. You’ll receive a small severance package, we aren’t completely heartless, but I need you to clear out your desk and…”

Zachariah’s voice fades to a buzzing in Dean’s ears as he drones on about returning security clearances and other minutiae that all means absolutely nothing to him at the moment. Pretty soon he’s standing and offering a hand and Dean acts reflexively, reaching out to shake as if this is the end of a perfectly normal conversation and not the end of his life as he knows it. He wanders out of the posh office in shock, still in a haze as he makes his way back to his own _(now former)_ office space. 

Things don’t get any better as he’s boxing up his personal items and getting ready to leave, and the box itself is pretty sad to look at. A picture of his dad Bob, his mom Ellen, and him with his arm around his sister Jo at her high school graduation is the most personal thing he even _has_ to pack. The rest is just… stress balls and protein drink shakers. The set of gym clothes and extra button-down shirt and tie he keeps tucked in the bottom drawer of his desk. An extra key to his car. 

There’s a little plant his mom had given him when he first got the job at Sandover, but Dean’s never had a green thumb nor the headspace to remember to do something so trivial as _water an office plant,_ and it had died months ago. Still, he’d kept it on the windowsill out of nostalgia. He nestles the pot into the box on top of the neatly folded clothing and looks around to ensure he hasn’t missed anything.

He hasn’t. There’s nothing to miss.

He leaves his swipe badge and keys on the desk and makes his way out of his office for the last time. Out on the main floor, all of the employees sneak furtive, pitying glances in his direction and Dean _hates_ it. He wishes the floor would just open up and swallow him whole, but unfortunately, he’s not that lucky. As he makes his way towards the elevator, Dean tries desperately to think of _anyone_ at the firm he might want to say goodbye to, and comes up blank. Well, there _was_ that guy from IT that had tried to befriend him once… Sal? Sam? At any rate, Dean had blown him off repeatedly, and he’s only regretting it just now. What has he done here, really? What kind of life has he carved out for himself? With all the time and energy he’d poured into doing his job, he’d _still_ made a critical mistake that resulted in losing _everything,_ and now all that time and energy spent meant nothing. He has no friends, no significant other, not even a friendly co-worker who will miss his face. 

_What has he done?_

Feeling more sensitive and emotional than he has in years and extremely irritated at himself for it, Dean blinks until the threatening burn behind his eyes lessens. He hurries out of the elevator and across the lobby to the doors that lead out to into the street. Despite the blast of cold that hits him in the face as he steps outside, Dean keeps his head down and moves as quickly as possible; all he wants is to get home and throw himself a pity party in his own bed. His intense focus on the contents of the box in his hands causes him to almost miss the fact that the homeless guy, _Castiel,_ is sitting upright on the sidewalk, his sleeping bag all rolled up. He looks up hopefully as Dean approaches, his face quickly morphing into a mask of concern when he takes in Dean’s demeanor, and probably the box. 

Dean feels bad for the guy, but he’s just not up for small talk, not up for _any_ talk at the moment. So instead of acknowledging Castiel, he keeps his eyes down and forward and hurries by him as if he’s not even there. It’s an asshole move and he regrets it, especially when he hears Cas’ small, low voice call out, “Dean,” after him. The guy seems genuinely nice, but his situation is hitting just a little too close to home right now, and Dean can’t deal. All he can see when he looks in Castiel’s direction is the spot next to him taken up by his own sleeping bag, his own body curled up in it, cold and hungry. Dramatic, perhaps, but Dean’s method of coping has always been to _work,_ and that’s not exactly an option right now. 

He stomps across the parking lot and shoves the meager collection of belongings into the passenger seat of his Prius, rounding the car to get in on the driver’s side. On his way out of the lot, he _wants_ to say something to Ernie, the man who guards it, but he can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound stupid and he’s honestly embarrassed to admit that he was fired. In the end, he just says, “See ya around, Ernie,” and returns the friendly smile and wave he gets back.

The drive to his apartment isn’t long and he’s inside kicking his shoes off before he knows it. Dean’s had this place for over a year, but he’s never spent much time there, aside from sleeping and showering. When he looks around, he realizes it’s about as sparse as his office, and equally as welcoming. He rented the place furnished, that had been one of the draws, actually, and never saw any need to personalize it. The most he’d done was to get an expensive coffee maker that started itself in the mornings. Quickly inventorying the actual personal items he has, Dean comes to the conclusion that he probably has less to his name than a college student living out of a dorm. 

Discouraged and unsure what to even do next, he shuffles sadly into the bedroom and flops down on his back, the clips holding his suspenders to his pants digging obnoxiously into his back. He ignores them and pulls out his cell phone, quickly scrolling his contacts to the only person he knows won’t join him in any bullshit pity party.

He hits _call._

“Hello?” Dean sighs in relief as his father’s gruff voice floods his ear. 

“Hey, Dad,” he says, doing his best not to let his shame and sadness creep into his tone. 

“What’s wrong, boy? The hell do you sound like someone died?”

Dean should have known better, and maybe he did, isn’t that really why he called? His dad’s always been able to see straight through his bullshit. “I uh, I got fired today,” he admits. “Just feelin’ a little sorry for myself, thought maybe you could kick my ass back in line.” 

There’s silence at the other end of the line for a moment, and then his dad replies, “I’m sorry, son. But I ain’t gonna sugar coat this—”

“Wouldn’t want you to,” Dean interjects quickly.

“Son, are you gonna shut up and let me talk? ‘Cause if you wanted to have a conversation with yourself, you could’ve saved me the trouble and just stood in front of the mirror.” 

“Sorry,” Dean replies, but he’s smiling. He knew he could count on his dad to treat him normally.

“As I was sayin’... I ain’t gonna sugar coat this, I never liked that place. They worked you too hard, never seemed to recognize your worth.”

“They paid me really well,” Dean protests lightly.

“Yea, well, money ain’t everything, kid. You got anybody special in your life? Friends you hang out with? Hobbies, shit you do for fun?” Dean’s silent, knowing better than to mention “the gym” as a hobby to his father. “That’s what I thought,” he continues. “Maybe you stop moping and treat this like the opportunity it is, Dean. Take some time off, go find yourself. You know, I met your mother on a road trip when I was about your age. Picked her up in the middle of Nebraska, we’ve been together ever since.” 

“I know how you two met,” Dean replies with a roll of his eyes.

“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” his father says. “I’m just sayin’. You’re too young to be wasting your life away in an office. You know that I’m proud of you, son. And whatever happens, whatever you decide to do next, nothing’s ever gonna change that, you hear me? But your mom and I…” There’s a rustling and a gentle rumble of voices in the background, and he hears his dad jostling the phone before his voice gets distant. “Yes, it’s Dean. I’ll tell him.” He’s clearer again the next time he speaks. “Your mother says you’re due for a visit. Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You could kill two birds with one stone, _and_ make your old folks happy.”

“I’ll think about it, Dad,” Dean replies, and he can hear his dad sigh at the other end of the phone.

“Well, don’t call and ask me for my advice if you ain’t never gonna take it,” he grumbles. “I’ve gotta run, but you take care of yourself, son. Call your sister, she misses you.” He hangs up before Dean can even say goodbye, not that he expected anything less. Dean smiles affectionately down at his phone screen before dropping it onto the bed and stretching, his fingers intertwining and settling behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. 

_A road trip?_ Dean scoffs at the thought. It would be completely irresponsible. No, he needs to get his laptop out and start the search for a new job immediately. He’s got some contacts from Standford he can email, see if they have any leads or can at least give him a good recommendation. But even as he thinks it, he can’t bring himself to actually get up and follow through. Just the idea of slogging himself to interview after interview, of _another_ bare office and _another_ job with ten to twelve-hour workdays, endless cups of coffee and no rewards other than a bank account with a steadily increasing number of zeros in its balance. 

It all feels so shallow, so hollow. 

So what if he _did_ take a little time off and took his dad’s advice? Where would he even go? He supposes that’s half the fun of a road trip though, figuring it out as one goes along. Not that he would know, he’s never even taken a vacation, never mind a spontaneous and unplanned one. He turns his head to the side and sees the picture of his family hanging in the hallway outside the door to his bedroom. It looks lonely out there, all by itself. 

Dean sits upright and takes a deep breath.

 _Alright,_ he thinks to himself. _Why the hell not?_

Before he can lose his nerve, he gets his ass in gear. Within the hour, he’s spoken to his landlord and secured a cage in the basement of the building where he can keep his belongings for as long as he’s willing to pay the fee. Dean’s been a model tenant, and the landlord assures him that he’s always welcome back so long as there’s an open apartment. That goes a long way to assuaging Dean’s fears that he’s doing something irreversible, irrevocable, that if he _does this_ he won’t have a life waiting for him on the other side. 

_But lots of people take sabbaticals,_ he reasons as he packs up his clothing and personal items into suitcases. _Plenty of people take a few months off and then return to equally strong careers._ Honestly, he’s not looking at any of his thoughts too closely right now, sure that if he does he’ll inevitably change his mind. 

Dean’s landlord kindly brings a trolley up for him, and he loads the few things that are actually his (a couple of bookcases, the fancy coffee machine, a metric _ton_ of books and DVDs that he’s never had the time to sit down and enjoy) onto it. His landlord takes it away when he’s done, leaving Dean with the key to the cage and a pocketful of growing regrets, which he promptly buries in the back of his mind where they belong.

Soon enough, Dean’s removing the door key from his keychain and dropping it on the kitchen counter, hoisting one of the suitcases containing his belongings and valuables up over his shoulder and dragging the other behind. He stands outside the door to his apartment for a moment, waiting to feel _something, anything,_ but all that comes is a slight case of nerves over what he’s about to do. He doesn’t even have a _plan_ or an idea of where to go first.

But the nostalgia or regret he’s expecting to feel over giving up his apartment never comes. It wasn’t a home to begin with, just a place to rest his head. That much is very clear now. And as he turns to begin the trek down the hallway to the elevator that will take him to the parking lot, he’s surprised to find that the feeling sweeping his body… is relief. 

***

That lasts about as long as it takes for Dean to turn left out of the parking garage, and then he’s hit with what _should_ be a completely unsurprising wave of, _well, now what?_ Nothing comes to mind and so Dean just drives, heading from his apartment downtown toward the outskirts of the city where he can catch the highway west and head in the direction of his parents’ home in South Dakota if all else fails. Coincidentally, this is the same path he’s driven nearly every day to get to work at Sandover, and all too soon the building looms in front of him, mocking him with its very existence.

Dean briefly considers taking a detour just to avoid passing it but eventually decides that he’s being ridiculous and presses on. As he gets closer, he notices a small crowd on the sidewalk, just this side of where the coffee stand sits. He recognizes three men with uniforms belonging to Sandover’s security team and two that belong to the City Police Department, and they seem to be surrounding someone or something on the ground. Out of pure curiosity, Dean slows the car and cranes his head to get a better look. He’s just in time to see Castiel dragged from his usual spot to standing, his arm twisted rather cruelly behind his back. He’s yelling and his face is red with fury as he twists and tries to get away, to no avail. Dean watches as his face crumples in pain when the police officer tightens his grip on his arm and the other reaches for his taser.

In a split-second decision that he’ll wonder for years where it came from, Dean throws the car into park and hops out. “Hey!” He yells, stalking towards the group. “ _Hey!_ Let him go, he isn’t bothering anyone.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stay back,” the police officer who isn’t holding Castiel says, reaching an arm out in his direction, which Dean dodges. 

“Can’t do that,” he replies, shocking even himself. “Let him go, please,” he repeats, making sure to keep his voice level and calm. The guards and officers all exchange glances, clearly wondering who Dean is and what this all means to him. He hopes they don’t ask, because he sure as hell has no idea. 

“Sir, this is private property. The business has a right to keep the sidewalks clear for clients,” the man holding Cas explains, and Castiel scowls.

“It’s a _sidewalk,”_ he growls. “Anyone can walk or sit here.” 

The cop shakes him and Castiel winces. Dean reaches out a hand. “Hey, c’mon, you’re hurting him. Just let him go, alright? I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, don’t you? I’ll take responsibility for him, I give you my word.”

Castiel snorts and Dean shoots him a glare that thankfully shuts him up, though not without an eye roll. The officers look between each other and then back at Dean, sizing him up. The suit he’s still wearing must lend him some clout, and suddenly, Castiel’s dropped unceremoniously to the ground in a heap. 

“We get another complaint and he’s getting booked for trespassing,” one of them warns. “Get him out of here, if you know what’s good for you both.” 

The guards and officers disperse, and Castiel gives each group the finger as they wander away. He reaches behind himself to collect his sleeping bag and backpack, shouldering the pack without so much as acknowledging that Dean’s still standing there. Feeling awkward again, Dean scratches the back of his neck. “So, uh, where are you gonna go?”

Castiel finally lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s as he stands, and they’re just as piercing and beautiful as Dean remembers. “Somewhere else, apparently,” he grunts and turns to walk away. His too-light jacket has a rip down the left side, and Dean wonders if it’s been there, or if it’s something the cops caused. He shivers in the relentless wind and thinks about Castiel wandering off in the biting cold to find a new piece of sidewalk to inhabit, imagines him shaking his way through the increasingly cold nights in the coming months, and fumbles for something to say or do that might help.

In doing so, an absolutely _insane_ idea crosses Dean’s mind. The kind of idea that gets people killed or carjacked or _worse_. He can’t decide whether his father would slap him for thinking it, or wholeheartedly approve.

 _The hell with it,_ he thinks. _This is the kind of thing Dad was talking about. Life, and living it._

“Hey,” he calls after Castiel’s retreating back. Reluctantly, the man turns around and raises his eyebrows at Dean. “You, uh… you ever been on a road trip?” 

Castiel regards him carefully as if he can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not. “No,” he says finally, slow and deliberate, eyes still sizing Dean up. He feels self-conscious, knows his face is flushing, but he’s committed now. No sense is bailing when he’s already done the hard part.

“Me either. You think you might want to go?” Castiel’s head tips to the side, considering, and Dean babbles on. “I lost my job today,” he admits, dropping his hands to his sides in resignation. “I thought… I don’t know, man. Seemed like a good idea.” Castiel remains silent and Dean shakes his head. “This is crazy, isn’t it? I sound crazy. Shit. Sorry to bother you.” He holds up a hand and turns, walking quickly in the direction of his still-idling car.

“Wait,” he hears from behind him, and he turns around, not quite knowing what to expect but definitely not Castiel striding back up to him. “Are you serious? You’d take me with you?” 

“I mean, unless you got something keeping you here,” Dean replies, gesturing around him, pleased to see Castiel’s eyes widen and his face split into a grin at his response. “I guess I’m homeless now too,” he continues with a shrug. “And I have this car, and I thought… I dunno, do you _like_ this sidewalk?” Castiel laughs and Dean feels encouraged, stuffing hands into his pockets and looking up at him shyly. “I know we don’t know each other, but I thought maybe you’d like to try being homeless with me.” 

“That’s very forward of you,” Castiel replies, still grinning, and it’s a _nice_ smile, Dean thinks. Straight, white teeth that have no business being on a homeless person. Not that Dean’s particularly versed in what homeless people may or may not look like, but still. 

“I’m feeling a little crazy today,” Dean admits, letting his gaze dart up the front of the Sandover building a little regretfully. He shrugs. “Might as well go full ham.” 

“I like crazy,” Castiel replies thoughtfully, stroking his chin with a finger. “Alright, _Dean._ You’re not secretly a psycho killer planning to dismember me and bury my various parts in different places, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” Dean replies very seriously, and that makes Castiel laugh again. “You?” 

“Not that I know of,” Castiel agrees, a twinkle in his eye. Dean steps towards the car and opens the back door.

“For your stuff,” he says. Castiel keeps his eyes locked on Dean as he drops his sleeping bag and pack into the backseat before closing the door once again. He steps forward to stand just a _touch_ too close to Dean, their breath visibly mingling in the scarce space that's between them. Dean swallows and licks his lips without meaning to.

“Are we really going to do this?” Castiel asks, but he doesn’t sound reluctant, he sounds… _excited,_ and Dean can’t help but grin back at him.

“Anywhere in particular you’ve always wanted to go?” 

Castiel's smile grows wider still, and Dean's suddenly not so cold anymore.

He hopes he's making the right decision.


	2. Home is Something Political

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at slow burns. Sorry, not sorry.

Cars have always fascinated Dean, in the way he imagines being an astronaut fascinates most people. Cool as hell from a distance, a lot more complicated and confusing up close. Maybe in another life, he might have had the guts or opportunity to harness that passing interest and turn it into something, or at the very least, to drive something more interesting than a Prius. Not that his Prius isn’t a good car, he bought it for a reason, after all. Excellent gas mileage, kind to the environment, what’s not to like? Especially for someone like Dean, who has only ever used it to get from Point A to Point B and back twice a day, anything more in a vehicle would have been… excessive. 

At least, that’s what he’s always told himself. The truth is, being out on the road, the windows down and music playing, Dean kind of secretly wishes the Prius was a little more… punchy. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel and presses down on the accelerator, and for the first time, it feels to him as though something is _missing._ The buzzing hum of the engine and lack of throttle as they merge onto yet another highway isn’t as _satisfying_ as Dean thinks it could be. 

Or perhaps he’s just being silly, caught up in the excitement of what he’s doing and feeling as if everything around him, his environment included, should be excited too. The Prius is steady and reliable, but she’s definitely not _exciting._

Regardless though, it’s been a nice ride so far. Castiel’s an easygoing passenger, and while Dean can tell he has a million questions and is probably still wondering whether he’s going to be murdered or abandoned at some rest stop along I-70, he doesn’t say so. He just settles back in his seat and watches dreamily out the window, stealing glances at Dean when he doesn’t think he’ll notice, and kicking one sneakered foot up on the dash. Normally, that would bug the hell out of Dean, but for some reason with Castiel, he just finds it endearing. 

Pulling out his smartphone, Dean opens the map and confirms that they’re going to be on this particular highway for several more hours before flipping the phone around and offering it to Castiel. “You wanna find us a hotel?” 

Castiel starts, glancing between the phone and Dean’s face before taking it gingerly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these,” he muses, fingers drifting over the screen. “They’ve changed.” He hesitates and puts the phone down on his thigh. “I wouldn’t want to damage it.” 

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that there’s more going on here than Castiel’s apparent unfamiliarity with technology, and while part of Dean’s dying to ask, he’s also courteous and well-enough versed in what _“I don’t want to talk about it”_ looks like to offer the man an out. There’s a sign on the side of the road indicating a rest stop with fast food available in under a mile, and Dean pulls into the right lane, preparing to stop. “It’s been a few hours,” he says casually, “And we’ve got about three more until we reach DC. What do you say we hit the restrooms, grab something to eat, and then I’ll teach you how to use that thing?” He raises his eyebrows in Castiel’s direction, splitting his gaze between the other man and the road.

When it takes him a minute to answer, Dean fiddles with the radio and tries not to feel self-conscious as Castiel uses that time to regard Dean carefully. When he finally speaks, his words aren’t exactly what Dean expects (though perhaps they should be). 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” 

It’s a simple question and surprisingly, Dean actually does have a simple answer. “I don’t know,” he replies with a shrug and a slightly rueful smile. “Maybe I’m just tired of being alone.” He glances in Castiel’s direction and sees him looking back thoughtfully, his hands folded in his lap, both feet on the floor for once. “Maybe I’m hoping, you know, since you were crazy enough to do this with me, that you are too.” He navigates smoothly off the highway and into the rest stop, noting that it’s one big building with all the amenities inside. He steers the Prius into a parking space that’s close to the front door and shuts it off, keeping his eyes locked on the wheel while he waits for Castiel’s reply. 

“Hmm,” is all he says, though, and Dean turns to look at him, incredulous.

“Hmm? Seriously? That’s all I get?” But Castiel just grins and unhooks his seatbelt, arching his back to reach into the backseat and retrieve his pack. After rummaging inside it for a second, he locates a small toiletry bag and pulls it out, opening it up to reveal a bunch of pill bottles and a stash of weed. 

“Two questions,” he says amiably. “Is it alright if I smoke in here, and do you want some?” Castiel’s eyes dance as he packs the bowl without looking at it, only lighting up when Dean nods, too stunned to really process what’s happening. Castiel inhales, holding the smoke in his lungs as he passes the bowl over. Dean thinks about saying no, _should_ say no, he’s driving after all, but he used to smoke quite a bit in college, and he’s fairly confident a little buzz won’t impair him so much that he’s a danger on the road. Besides, aren’t opportunities like this what he signed on for? He accepts the glass piece offered by Castiel and takes a hit, albeit a much smaller one than his new partner in crime had done. 

The smile on Castiel’s face gets wider when he exhales with a little cough, and Dean once again finds himself grinning back. “What?” 

Shrugging, Castiel takes the bowl back and lights up again. “Nothing,” he replies, the smoke curling out of his mouth rather seductively, if Dean does say so himself. “I thought for sure you’d say no. You’re so…” He trails off, motioning up and down Dean’s body with his hand. 

“I am not,” Dean replies defensively, despite the fact that Castiel hasn’t actually _called_ him anything at all. “I swear, I’m not as square as I look.” At that, Castiel tips his head back and laughs, his eyes twinkling when he resurfaces and frustratingly, Dean finds it impossible to feel put out when Cas looks so damn happy. “Whatever, Cas,” he pouts.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replies, but his grin says otherwise, “I’ve never actually heard someone use the word ‘square’ before.” Dean blows out a breath and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Our first fight,” Castiel continues, shoving at Dean’s bicep a little before packing away his smoking materials and zipping up his pack. 

Dean snorts and leans his head back against the headrest, struggling not to smile and finding that he just can’t help himself. “Suppose that means we get to make up now?” 

“Hmm,” Castiel says again, and Dean quickly realizes how his words sound. 

“Oh, shit,” he covers quickly. “Cas, I didn’t ask you here to — Uhm, this is awkward,” he says quietly, struggling to correct his mistake. “I would never assume that you and I… I mean, that you would—”

“Hey, ass, grass, or cash, that’s what makes the world go round,” Castiel says sunnily, but his smile’s faded, not quite making it all the way to his eyes anymore. 

“No,” Dean says fiercely, reaching out and closing a hand around Cas’ wrist. Castiel’s eyes widen minutely, but he doesn’t pull away. “Listen, Cas, we’ve already been over how crazy this whole thing is. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but for some _very_ strange reason, I _want_ to. And you can interpret that however you want, but I ain’t askin’ you for anything other than your company, understand?” Castiel nods slowly, and empowered, Dean blusters on. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, and no one to spend it on or enjoy it with. So why _not_ you?” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “But let’s get one thing straight: you don’t owe me a damn thing. If that bothers you, maybe you just think of it as me tryin’ to apologize for ignoring your ass for the last couple of months. ‘Cause I feel really shitty about that, and I’d like to make it up to you.” Gently, he withdraws his hand and sits back, waiting for Castiel to tell him that he’s batshit insane and that he’ll catch the next willing car back in the other direction to take his chances on the street. 

But on the contrary, Castiel leans forward over the center console and brushes his lips softly across Dean’s cheek, setting it alight in a reflexive blush. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It’s been quite a long time since anyone has treated me like a human being.” With that, he opens the car door and exits, leaning down to add, “I have to piss, grab me a burger if you’re buying.” 

For a man used to airtight contracts and the faux politeness that swims oily between salesmen and their clients, it’s the most blunt and bizarre acceptance of an offer that Dean’s ever received. 

It’s the _best_ acceptance of an offer he’s ever received. 

He’s going to buy Castiel a thousand burgers.

***

Under the guise of not wanting to eat and drive and the fact that he hasn’t helped Cas learn his phone yet, Dean gasses up the car and then parks off to the side of the lot so that they can down their burgers. His are good, maybe the best thing he’s put into his mouth in months considering what he’s _been_ consuming for nourishment (or lack thereof). He makes a crack about the Master Cleanse, and Castiel looks at him like he’s crazy, which, considering their circumstances, really puts the stupidity of drinking watered-down lemon juice mixed with maple syrup and cayenne pepper into perspective. 

_So noted,_ Dean thinks. _No more cleanses._

Despite the fact that it’s crappy fast food, the taste of juicy meat and cheese on his tongue is spectacular, but it’s nothing compared to the pure bliss written all over Castiel’s face. Dean finds himself eating mindlessly, something he’d usually consider a cardinal sin, but he just can’t look away. Castiel catches him staring but doesn’t try to hide how pleased he is with his meal. “These make me… _very_ happy,” he sighs, his mouth stuffed full. After he’s put away two _and_ a large order of fries, Castiel hits the button that makes his chair recline, leaning back and resting a hand on his stomach. “ _Dean,”_ he moans. “That was… heavenly. I haven’t eaten like that in what feels like an entire lifetime. Thank you.” 

“Don’t gotta thank me, man,” Dean replies, somewhat embarrassed. “Seriously, if we’re gonna do this, let’s just forget about money altogether, deal?”

Castiel slits his eyes open and turns his head in Dean’s direction. “That’s an easy thing for a man with plenty of it to suggest,” he says, which has Dean immediately preparing a rebuttal, but Castiel waves him off. “But if you insist.” The quirky little smile Cas seems to wear like a familiar jacket returns and Dean decides to take that for what it is, though it makes him more determined than ever to discover what makes his new friend tick. 

“So,” he says, attempting a subject change as he wipes his mouth and fingers off with a paper napkin, gathering all their trash and stuffing it into the paper burger bag. “Here, look, this is easy.” Castiel sits up, leaning over to look as Dean swipes open his phone, opening the browser and entering a search for _“Hotels in Washington, DC.”_ He gives Castiel a few tips and then hands his phone over. 

Cas looks less uncertain this time, and as Dean puts the car in gear he notices that he navigates the browser flawlessly. It doesn’t appear as if he’s unfamiliar with the technology at all, but perhaps he’s just a fast learner. As he pulls back onto the highway, Castiel scrolls and hums thoughtfully, tapping away at the screen. “I heard what you just said, but I can’t help noticing that these are all very expensive,” he says, but Dean just shrugs and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas. Just pick one that looks nice to you, maybe see if there’s something with an indoor pool?” He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a credit card, handing it over. Castiel casts him a wary look, but Dean just puts on his _most_ insistent face and waves the card in his direction until he takes it, gingerly, as if it might explode.

Internally, he’s debating on whether to keep the conversation casual or if he should crack the door and let Castiel in, at least a little bit. The way things are going, Dean figures that if he _doesn’t_ do that, they’re never going to get past this money thing. 

“This trip was my dad’s idea,” he finally reveals after a few minutes of quiet as Castiel finishes up poking at the screen, apparently locating a hotel that interests him. Dean clears his throat and focuses on the road in front of him, silently willing himself to _not_ be a closed-off asshole. “You know, when I called to tell him about getting shit-canned from Sandover. Pretty sure he thinks I was throwing my life away there, and you know what? I’m starting to think he wasn’t wrong. I mean hell, I’ve had more fun with you in the last three hours than I’ve had in _years,_ and no offense, but driving endlessly down a highway isn’t that fun.” 

“None taken,” Castiel replies evenly, and when Dean turns to look, he’s got a leg pulled up on the seat, elbow propped on his knee and chin in his hand as he listens. It’s sickeningly adorable and Dean’s both furious and incredibly glad he has the excuse of needing to watch the road to look away. 

“Right,” he continues. “Thing is, when I think about it, I don’t even know how I got here, not really. I’ve always looked up to my dad, and he’s nothing like me.” Dean gestures to himself and catches Castiel chewing on his lip. “My dad’s a great man. Loves his wife, loves his kids, owns his own garage. He’s not rich, but he’s happier’n almost anyone I know. I guess the way I figure it, if I’m feeling lost, I could do worse than take some advice from him.” 

The car goes quiet for a moment, the only noises being the faint humming of the engine and soft rock playing on low volume through the speakers. 

Finally, Castiel speaks. “Your dad told you to pick up a homeless man, drive him across the country, and drain your bank account on him?” 

Dean barks out a surprised laugh and darts a glance at Castiel, who is, of course, grinning widely. “You’re kind of a dick, you know that?” 

“It’s been said,” Castiel replies with a solemn nod. He lets his foot slip down and returns to leaning back against the reclined seat, yawning and stretching as he closes his eyes. “We have more in common than you think, Dean,” he says quite cryptically through a yawn. “I think we could be great friends, you and I.” 

Licking his lips and searching for something _not_ lame to reply to a statement like that, Dean finds himself off the hook when soft snores begin filtering over almost immediately from Castiel’s direction. Dean turns his head to confirm and finds him fast asleep, one arm tucked behind his head, the other again resting across his full belly. His dirty hair flops down over his forehead and he looks peaceful, far more so than Dean’s ever seen him appear on the street. 

And if his chest gets a little warm and tight at the sight, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

***

_Washington, D.C._

Navigating the congested streets of Washington makes Dean suddenly glad once again that he has a Prius. The little car zips in and around pedestrians, bicyclists, and other cars easily, and Dean feels a lot less like he’s about to sideswipe the endless line of vehicles parked at meters along the side of the road than he might have otherwise. The hotel Castiel chose is pretty centrally located on Capitol Hill, and while Dean didn’t ask and doesn’t care, Castiel assures him that it was reasonably priced. 

Castiel, for his part, all but has his face pressed flush against the window as Dean drives, pointing out various sights and acting extremely pleased that the Capitol building is visible from their hotel. “This is very exciting,” he murmurs at one point, and Dean isn’t quite sure he even realizes that he’s spoken aloud. 

“Never been here, Cas?” Dean glances over but Castiel stays glued to the window as he rambles. “I came once, a couple of months after Sandover hired me. There was a conference they wanted me at, good for networking. Ended up with a ton of contacts that resulted in a whole bunch of sales, but I didn’t leave the hotel once.” Dean sighs. “Kind of regretting that, now.” 

Castiel finally looks over and smiles at him. “I was here once, though it feels like another lifetime.” He picks up his coffee and the diet tea Dean’s been sipping on, pressing the tea into Dean’s hand and then clinking the two drinks together in a toast. “To making new memories,” he says, before sipping and turning back to watching the city go by. 

“To making new memories,” Dean replies thoughtfully, as he spots the hotel and pulls into the covered unloading zone. _Valet Parking Only,_ the sign reads above a list of rates, but Dean’s distracted from processing them by a sudden choked-off sound coming from his traveling companion.

“I didn’t realize the parking would be almost half the cost of the hotel,” Castiel says, clearly disgusted, though whether it’s at the rates or himself, Dean has no idea.

Regardless, he just shrugs. “That’s the city for you,” he demurs, unbothered. “Everything’s expensive.” Castiel raises his eyebrows and looks at Dean as if he’s sure that he’s playing cool for his benefit, but he’s really not. How many times is he going to have to tell Castiel that money isn’t something either of them needs to worry about right now? Taking in Cas’ expression though, Dean softens and bites back the comment he was going to make, putting himself in Castiel’s position and remembering that he does in fact, probably seem like the crazy one here. “ _Trust_ me,” he says instead. “If I say I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” 

“If you insist,” Castiel replies noncommittally. 

They unstrap and grab their bags, Dean having to shift a few items from one suitcase to another due to his packing haste so that he can leave one inside the car. After a moment of thought, he tosses his second bathing suit into the bag to come inside as well, feeling all but sure that Castiel isn’t toting one around in that beat-up backpack of his. 

_He’ll need some new clothes, too,_ Dean considers, as he hands the keys to the car over to the valet without a second thought. _A warmer jacket, some hygiene items, bet he’d like a new razor and a better toothbrush than that shitty one he has._ Without really thinking about it, Dean sizes Castiel up and determines that he’ll probably fit into his own clothes, which may or may not appeal to him in a way that’s not entirely platonic. He struggles to come up with a way to offer all of those things without sounding patronizing or making Castiel more uncomfortable than he already is with their inherently unequal money situation. 

He’s so lost in thought that he runs right into Castiel’s back when he comes to a stop in the middle of the lobby. “My bad,” he says, but Castiel isn’t paying him any mind, gazing around the open, airy space in awe as he takes it all in. 

“This is wonderful,” he breathes, blinking up at the skylights overhead and the wall of windows set on a diagonal and facing the street to their left. It’s evening now, so the full effect of all the glass is probably lost somewhat, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. As they make their way toward the front desk, he runs his hand over some of the plush furniture decorating the lobby, his face cycling through several expressions which Dean _highly_ suspects represent longing, the subsequent realization that he’s welcome here, and then shame. The last one hurts to see, and Dean feels more resolved than ever to wipe it off of his face permanently. 

The dawning awareness that Castiel has abruptly gone from convenient company to someone he’s actually starting to _care_ about is a little jarring, but Dean rolls with it, once again chalking it all up to what this whole experience is supposed to be about. As they wait in line at the desk, he shoots a glance in Cas’ direction and finds him still looking around in awe. He keeps his thoughts to himself for now and just hopes that his increasing interest doesn’t turn out to be unwanted. 

While checking in for the two nights he asked Cas to book, Dean finds out that the credit card he’d used has built-in perks that have them automatically upgraded to a suite. Reflecting on Castiel’s reaction to the lobby alone, he _almost_ turns it down, but at the last second decides, _what the hell?_ A suite means more space, and considering the fact that he and Castiel are still virtually strangers, that can’t be a bad thing. Maybe Cas won’t feel comfortable sleeping one bed over from him, and he should have options, too. Dean accepts the keys and nods at the clerk’s instructions on how to get to their room, turning away the bellhop when he offers to take their bags. 

It’s only then that he notices that in addition to his pack, Castiel is carting around his ratty old sleeping bag, as if he expects to be relegated to the _floor_ or something. _Jesus Christ,_ Dean thinks. _I have got to get us on the same page._

They take the elevator up and Castiel is quiet, but Dean notices his fingers turning white where he grips the bag draped over his shoulder. Elbowing him gently, Dean asks, “You okay?” 

Castiel turns his face up towards Dean with a smile that’s obviously masking something else and nods. “I am… adjusting,” he says, and Dean can admit, that’s fair. The rest of the ride is silent and bordering on awkward between them as they exit the elevator and make their way down the hall, following the numbers and directionals on the wall to their room. Dean keys it open and doesn’t miss Castiel’s sharp intake of breath when he does. 

It _is_ a very nice space, after all, definitely deserving of Cas’ apparent approval. Decorated in chic grey and white with orange accents, it reminds him a little of the apartment he’d left behind, save for the splash of color. He likes the orange though, wishes he’d thought to use it in his own space. _Maybe next time,_ he thinks as he wanders through the room. There’s a full-size dining table, a giant, plush sectional couch, a large big screen TV and a separate bedroom boasting a King-sized bed. The bathroom is marble and expensive-feeling with a giant tub _and_ a shower, and Dean has to admit, taking the upgrade feels like it was the right idea.

That is, until he turns around and sees Castiel standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, still clutching his things as if he expects someone to try and steal them. 

“Alright,” Dean says, lifting his hands up and dropping them to his sides in resignation. “How do we get past this? Or do you not want to?” 

Castiel’s gaze sharpens as it tears away from the window view of Capitol Hill and refocuses on Dean. “What?” 

“Don’t do that, man. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. Look, if you’re having regrets, there’s nothing saying you gotta stick with me from here on out. I brought you here and I’ll get you back to Columbus, if that’s the issue. Or anywhere else you wanna go, you name it. We’ll get you a bus or train or plane ticket and we’ll go our separate ways, no harm, no foul. That what you want?” 

Dean’s surprised to see that Castiel looks torn, but it’s getting harder and harder for Dean to wrap his mind around his persistent reluctance to accept _help._ Not that Dean’s any expert on relationships, and not that whatever he and Cas are is anything approaching one, but the few people, mostly women, that he’s taken out on dates over the past decade, all seemed pretty quick to take his money. They’d all been more than happy to be pampered and taken care of, not one of them asking or worrying about what they might provide Dean in return. It hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder if some people might not be like that.

Of course, all of those people had been one night stands or left him, so what does he know? 

“It’s not that, Dean, I—” Castiel hesitates. “I enjoy your company very much,” he says softly, grip shifting but still secure on his bag. “I can appreciate that you’re a generous man, and I’m certainly in no position to refuse assistance. I suppose that I’m just wondering what it is you… _expect_ from me…” He trails off and raises his eyes slowly to meet Dean’s, waiting patiently while Dean pieces out the meaning in between his words.

It takes him an embarrassingly long minute to do so, but eventually, things click. “You mean—Jesus fuck, Cas,” Dean replies, running a hand through his short hair. “What, you thought this was like a _Pretty Woman_ situation?” Dean’s appalled that he’s come off that way, but looking back, it’s not _that_ strange of a conclusion for Cas to jump to. “Holy shit,” he mutters, dropping his bags and pacing over to the couch, sinking into it with his hands over his face.

“I’m unsure whether to be relieved or offended that you find the thought so outrageous, but for the sake of our friendship I’m going to go with relieved,” Castiel says, also making his way to the couch and dropping down on the section that Dean isn’t currently occupying. Lowering his hands from his face, Dean looks over at him mournfully. 

“Is that why you kissed me earlier?” He asks suddenly.

Castiel looks confused. “Kissed? I—Oh, in the parking lot,” he remembers. “No, not at all. I kissed you because you were sweet, and kind.” 

“So what’s changed?”

“Nothing at all,” Castiel replies with a shake of his head. “You’re right. This is a problem with me, Dean. I’m unused to people showing me kindness or interest without alternate motivations.” Dean sits up straight, turning towards Cas in earnest.

“I’m not that guy, Cas,” he tells him, hands out with his palms up, trying to show honesty. “It’s not how I was raised, I don’t got it in me.” 

“You worked for Sandover,” Castiel says pointedly.

“And if you’ve been _listening,_ I’ve been saying that was a mistake.” 

Blue eyes regard him for a moment, and Dean thinks he should be starting to get used to being sized up so intensely on such a regular basis. “You’re right,” Castiel admits finally. “I accepted your offer and now I’m being… difficult. This isn’t easy for me.” 

Dean blinks back at him, and for a moment they just sit like that, looking into each other’s eyes, both of them searching for something hidden behind the other’s gaze. Whatever Castiel sees there, it seems to satisfy him, and he nods and looks away.

Dean clears his throat. “I’m gonna guess that this is probably a bad time to offer to buy you some new shit?” Surprisingly, Castiel doesn’t balk, just laughs softly before glancing down at his worn pack and back up at Dean thoughtfully.

“You’d really want to? With no expectations?” 

“No expectations,” Dean confirms, and then sighs. He pulls out his phone and swipes around on it for a few seconds before handing it over to Castiel. “Maybe this will clear things up.” Castiel takes the phone and looks down at it, then back at Dean, then down at the phone, all without speaking. “Yea,” Dean says with a nod. “I know. But it’s just me, I’m all I got. When I worked at Sandover, I had a housing allowance, too. I paid my utilities and gas and stuff, but I barely ate and I never went anywhere besides the gym.” 

“That is a lot of zeros,” Castiel comments as he hands the phone back, and Dean closes out of his bank’s mobile app. 

“And they’re not doing me any good just sitting in there.”

“They’re making more zeros, from the little I understand,” Castiel replies, and Dean shoots him a look but finds him smiling. _He’s teasing,_ Dean realizes, and the warmth of that realization floods his body all the way down to his fingertips. It feels nice.

“For real, Cas, once and for all, are we done with this argument? It’s _money_ , it’s not important. I’d rather see what it can do to make us both happy.”

“You don’t know me,” Castiel replies, but while his tone is cautious, it’s not dismissive. He’s just stating a fact, and Dean nods.

“So let’s change that,” he suggests, and Castiel _grins._ On impulse, he holds out his hand to shake like, _do we have a deal?_ But to his surprise, Castiel grabs it with both hands and squeezes. 

“I would like that, Dean,” he says, still smiling wide, and Dean feels encouraged. 

***

As it turns out, there’s a Walmart nearby, and Dean takes Castiel there to pick up some basics. Thankfully, after their discussion, something must have sunken in because Castiel doesn’t protest. He just thanks Dean quietly and reaches for his hand on the walk back to the car, squeezing it softly before letting go and sliding back into the passenger’s side of the Prius. Dean continues trying his best not to dwell on how sweet Castiel is, how _nice_ it feels to be touched in an affectionate way, though he suspects those emotions are similar to what Cas might be feeling at his own generosity. 

They stop for burgers again, because they’re Castiel’s favorite and he found a place on Google that had great reviews, and Dean doesn’t even mind that it’s the second time that day he’s eaten straight grease. It’s been _way_ too long since he’s had a good meal, and he’s done starving himself for the sake of what he _thinks_ he should be doing. Though he does make a mental note to make sure both of them get some fruit in the morning.

By the time they make it back to the hotel, it’s almost ten PM and Dean’s starting to feel the drag of a whole day’s worth of driving, not to mention all the excitement before that. The memories of sitting in Zachariah’s office and packing up his apartment feel like they were made weeks ago, despite being only twelve hours earlier, give or take. Castiel begs off to go shower, carting an entire shopping bag’s worth of new items into the bathroom with him, and Dean clicks the TV on before settling down into the couch. He’s prepared to pretend to fall asleep there if necessary in order to get Cas to take the only bed, after all, the guy’s been sleeping on concrete for months at least. He deserves it, and Dean’s always had a knack for being able to pass out in strange places, not that he’s put it to much use since college. He thinks he could probably sleep in the Prius if he had to.

With some trashy reality show flickering mindlessly in the background, Dean’s eyelids start to get heavy, his stomach full and his body sinking happily into the comfortable piece of furniture beneath him. He’s _almost_ asleep when the bathroom door opens and Cas steps out, followed closely behind by a puff of steam. Dean blinks slowly and then his eyes go wide as he takes him in, sitting up and covering his crotch reflexively when his body reacts without his permission. Castiel just stands there, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, dressed in a brand new tight white t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. It’s hardly the sexiest or most revealing outfit Dean’s ever seen on another person and the shirt still has creases from where it was folded in its three-pack, but as far as Dean’s concerned, he looks _incredible._

Cas’ face is shaved close and smooth, save for a little shadow that Dean’s traitorous brain suggests might be permanent, and it makes him look several years younger. Without his multiple layers and jacket shielding him, Dean’s somewhat surprised to discover that Cas is pretty jacked, almost as much as Dean is, and he doubts Cas has been putting in much gym time recently. 

Too late, Dean realizes he’s not exactly being subtle, and Castiel follows his gaze to where it’s locked on his bare forearms and toned biceps. He lifts his eyes again to grin at Dean, because of course he does, and Dean flushes and looks away. 

“You can look,” he says cheekily, stepping back into the bathroom to scoop up his dirty clothes. “They’re good, right? When I used to get bored or cold, I’d go down to the park and work out on the playground. Monkey bars are surprisingly versatile for strength-building. I could show you sometime,” he offers with a wink. He strides forward and saves Dean from having to stammer out an awkward reply that most likely would have ended in an enthusiastic but embarrassing _“fuck yes,”_ by holding up his dirty clothes. “Any ideas about how I could get these washed? Does your phone say if there’s a laundromat nearby? Or perhaps a bottle of detergent, I could certainly make do with that very large tub.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean grabs the hotel guide sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch and flips through it until he finds what he’s looking for. He grabs the receiver off of the room phone and dials the number from the guide. “Yes, this is Dean Smith, I’m in the Capitol Suite and I have laundry that needs picking up. Okay, will do.” He hangs up and smiles at Cas. “Toss it in one of the plastic bags they keep in the bedroom closet and hang it on the outside door.” 

Castiel looks at him uncertainly. “On the door? Someone won’t steal it?” 

Dean shrugs. “The few times I traveled for Sandover, I sent my suits out and they always came back no problem.” He doesn’t exactly mean to make the implication that his suits are more worthy of stealing than Cas’ worn and dirty jeans, but it lingers in the air nonetheless. Castiel looks down at the bundle of clothes in his hands and flexes his fingers in the fabric. His expression reads a little strained. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he says, retreating into the bedroom and emerging with the bag Dean had directed him to. In the meantime, Dean fills out the laundry slip and hands it over. 

“Cas, we can totally hit up a laundromat tomorrow if that makes you feel more comfortable,” Dean offers, but Castiel smiles weakly and shakes his head, making his way over to the door and opening it. He uses the string from the bag to hang it on the handle and then closes the door once again. 

“That’s alright, Dean,” he replies. “I’m being overly sentimental.” Before Dean can press him for details, Castiel hops onto the couch beside him, bending his legs so that they’re tucked up underneath his body. “Now move, you’re sitting on my bed.”

Dean points a finger in Cas’ direction before dragging it across the room until it’s aimed at the open bedroom doorway. “Oh no,” he replies, shaking his head. “I prepared for this. That bed is yours, and besides, I _like_ the couch.” 

But Dean’s severely underestimated Castiel and his stubbornness, because he doesn’t move a single muscle, except to narrow his eyes in Dean’s direction. “I won’t take the only bed in a hotel room you paid for, Dean,” he argues, settling back into the cushions as if he plans to stay. 

Dean growls. “You _deserve_ it, Cas! I’ve slept in a bed every night you were out on that cold, hard ground, so just fucking take it and stop being so goddamn stubborn.” He rolls his eyes and scoots further down the couch so that he can stretch out again without looking at Castiel, and because it’s a sectional, there’s plenty of room for him to do so. Apparently, though, he’s not the only one who takes notice to that fact. Castiel slides down too, laying out in the opposite direction, curved slightly around the bend in the couch so that his head is almost touching Dean’s. 

“Seriously?” A low rumble reaches his ears, despite Castiel’s attempts to muffle it in the cushions. “This is ridiculous,” Dean complains, finally tilting his head up in Cas’ direction.

Amused blue eyes appear from under damp bedhead as Castiel raises his head, smirking. “Well, it _is_ a King-sized bed,” he points out. “There’s no reason that we can’t share. We’ve been sitting almost as close for this entire day, thanks to your fancy little car.” Without waiting for a reply, he stands up and grabs the TV remote from the coffee table, clicking it off and replacing it before holding out his hand for Dean to take. 

And for once, Dean doesn’t think too hard, just goes with his gut, and his gut wants to go with Cas. His throat feels dry as Castiel’s warm hand slips into his own, tightening just enough to tug him along. 

Castiel flips the lights off one by one as they pass each switch so that by the time they reach the windowless bedroom, it’s completely dark save for the lights from the city shining in through the windows in the living room and the red of the alarm clock perched on a bedside table. 

“Do you usually sleep in your belt and dress clothes?” Castiel asks as he drops his hand, and Dean looks down, realizing that he never did change. He’s still wearing the outfit he was fired in, as if his whole fucking life hasn’t been turned on its head in the hours since then. The tendrils of panic and worry creep along the edges of his mind, at least until he looks up and sees Castiel standing with one knee on the side of the bed, a soft smile on his face. And then just like that, the fear is gone. _What’s to panic over?_ Everything about where he is and what he’s doing feels… right. And that includes stripping down to his underwear and crawling into bed beside his new friend.

So he does, without hesitation, leaving only his boxer-briefs in place. And he definitely does _not_ miss the lingering once over Castiel gives his bare chest as he slides in between the sheets. Neither of them says anything or makes a move to close the space between them, but unless Dean’s imagining things (and his imagination isn’t that great), the air between them is _charged_. Laying on their sides and facing inward, there’s over a foot of mattress between them, though it feels like both less and more at the same time. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel whispers into that empty space.

“Night, Cas,” he says back, though it takes several more minutes for his eyes to unlock from Castiel’s so that they can drift closed. He’s nearly asleep for the second time that night when he feels a hand interlace with his own where it rests against the cool sheets. This time, he squeezes back. 

***

Even on weekends, Dean’s used to rising no later than seven AM. He’s been doing it for so long that he feels as if the routine is ingrained in his very DNA. Which is why he’s shocked to open his eyes the next morning and find that the red numbers on the alarm clock in front of his face insist that it’s after nine AM, which means that he’s been asleep for almost eleven hours. 

_Holy hell,_ he thinks, rolling onto his back and turning his head to check in on Cas. But the space next to him is empty, the sheets cool to his touch when he slides his hand across them. For an unnerving second, Dean wonders if Cas is gone, if he’d simply up and left before Dean had woken up, and it surprises him just how upsetting that thought is. 

Thankfully, it’s quickly driven from his head by the sound of rustling out in the living room. Dean finds himself gravitating out there immediately, still wearing only his boxers, with hardly a thought about it. He finds Castiel hovering over an assortment of bags on the table, and he looks up when Dean staggers in. 

“Good morning, Princess Aurora,” Castiel says with a grin, pulling a coffee from a carrying tray and holding it out towards Dean, who gratefully accepts. He closes his eyes as he sips, savoring the hot drink that’s somehow made exactly how he likes it. _Black, two Splenda, one pump of sugar-free vanilla._ “There was a complimentary breakfast downstairs, so I grabbed a variety of things. Pastries are in the bags. Is it right?”

“Hmm?” Dean replies dazedly, still clutching the cardboard cup with both hands.

“Is it right?” Castiel repeats, gesturing to the coffee. “I tried my best to remember what the one you’d given me tasted like.” 

“That’s impressive,” Dean tells him, sliding into one of the chairs at the table. “It’s perfect. You missed your calling.” 

Castiel’s nose scrunches and he makes a little noise that suggests he thinks Dean is full of shit. “I’m not entirely sure how one would describe that particular skill on a resume, but thank you,” he replies, and Dean dips his head, embarrassed.

“I probably shouldn’t try to hold a conversation before the first cup,” he apologizes, and Castiel winks, dragging soft fingers over Dean’s bare shoulder as he passes by on his way to the couch. Dean spins in his chair, watching as Castiel takes out a pill bottle from his bag and shakes one free. He doesn’t say what it’s for and Dean doesn’t ask, occupying himself and covering up the fact that he’s staring again by sipping his drink. He reaches into one of the paper bags and pulls out a danish, all too aware that he’s eaten more calories in the past twenty-four hours than probably the entire week before that. _So much for fruit,_ he thinks as he shoves the pastry into his mouth. _Oh well, at least I won’t be stuck at a desk all day. I can walk it off._ He swallows and brushes crumbs from his lips, looking up to find Castiel watching him with thinly veiled amusement. He grins.

“So, you ready to be a tourist?” 

Castiel is, in fact, more than ready. They both dress quickly and are out the door, heading down the street towards the Capitol building with no real plan in mind other than to hit as many monuments, museums, and landmarks as humanly possible. With the pace Castiel’s setting, he’s guessing that number is going to be high. Not that anything in Washington D.C. is particularly far from anything else, but Castiel is a _force_ as he strides quickly from one attraction to the next. It’s fortunate that most things in D.C. have complimentary admission, which is somewhat freeing, not having to ensure you get your money’s worth on one thing or another, especially with how quickly Cas moves. Dean’s always considered himself in shape, runs on the treadmill regularly even though he hates it and lifts weights dutifully, but Castiel’s movements belie natural athletic ability Dean just doesn’t have, and it shows as he tries to keep up. 

As he hurries along beside (and quite frequently just behind), Dean does his best not to dwell on the flex of Castiel’s strong thighs or the way his ass looks in the brand new pair of jeans he’s wearing, but it’s no small struggle. They blow through the Capitol building, briefly checking out the areas that are open to the public, but Castiel seems bored and tugs him back outside, down to the U.S. Botanic Gardens, which Dean is internally rolling his eyes at. But Castiel looks so pleased to find them that he lets himself be pulled along, and surprisingly, finds them rather soothing. There’s also a sprawling train display winding its way through all the plants, and Castiel tells him that it only goes up for the Holiday season, so they’re lucky to see it.

Watching his new friend smile widely and wander happily from description plaque to plaque, reaching out to caress the leaves of various plants gently, Dean can’t help but agree. _He is lucky. Very lucky indeed._ Castiel turns back in his direction, presumably wondering where he’s gone, and gives him a questioning look when he sees Dean standing in the middle of the path and staring. Dean just smiles and shakes his head, and Castiel shrugs, continuing his meandering on through the flowers. 

Next, they hit the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, and that's _much_ more Dean’s element. He marvels out loud about the planes and spacecraft both hanging from the ceiling and on display at eye level, shoves himself into a flight simulator probably meant for kids a third of his age, and then drags Castiel up to the observation tower where they watch the planes take off and land from the airport nearby. It’s _really_ fucking cool, and only made better by the fact that Castiel not only listens to him ramble and tolerates his antics completely, but while they’re in the tower, he presses his shoulder tight against Dean’s and leans in close to point out a particularly low-flying jet as it soars above them. Dean feels like he’s flying pretty damn high too, by the time they leave. He’s got no idea when things between him and Castiel turned from tentative friendship to what feels a lot more like a first date, but he doesn’t have one single regret about any of it. 

Stepping back out into the sunshine, Dean takes a moment to revel in their good fortune with the weather. It’s seventy degrees and breezy, perfect for sightseeing, and it feels _good_ to be outside, not cooped up under fluorescent lighting and trapped in front of a computer screen. He buys fresh-squeezed lemonade from a cart for him and Cas, and they sip as they make their way down and over to the Museum of Natural History. Dean initially thinks it looks boring but ends up _loving_ the Dinosaur Hall, and Castiel surprises him by knowing tidbits about all sorts of different things, a better tour guide than the informational plaques that line the walls at times, and much better to look at. 

From there they check out the Washington Monument, the interior of which is sadly closed for renovations, and they _try_ to see the Holocaust Museum, but find that the tickets sell out early in the morning. Secretly, Dean’s sort of relieved. The museum sounds interesting, but he selfishly wants to retain the happy mood both he and Cas are in and is very much okay with moving along. They hit up the World War II Memorial instead, which is pretty spectacular-looking with its huge circular fountain and surrounding pillars inscribed with each of the states and territories that made up the U.S. in 1945. Castiel slips his arm through Dean’s as they stroll around the perimeter, taking in the engraved scenes depicting servicemen on their journey from deployment all the way to the handshake that represents the eastern and western fronts meeting in Germany. It’s awe-inspiring, but Dean has a hard time focusing with Castiel wrapped around his elbow the way he is, so casual and sure of himself as if he knows he’s welcome, feels like he belongs there. 

He only lets go when they’ve rounded the second arch and are heading back towards the center where the fountain is, though when he does he casts Dean a longing look. “My feet are killing me,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m trying to be on my best behavior to impress you, or I’d ignore those signs and drop my feet right into that pool.” 

“It does look tempting,” Dean admits, his own feet burning up inside his shoes. “We’ll hit the hotel pool when we get back, deal?” 

Castiel smiles widely and grabs his hand to start leading him down the length of the Reflecting Pool. “I’ll hold you to that,” he replies, and Dean jogs to keep up so he can make sure that Castiel won’t let go. 

They take in the Lincoln Memorial, which Dean has to admit is incredibly auspicious in person, before Castiel’s stomach rumbles so loudly it draws stares from other tourists. He laughs but looks somewhat ashamed, averting his eyes and trying to pass off his hunger as a joke. Unconvinced, Dean drags him to the nearest hot dog cart and buys him as many as he wants (four, plus two for him), scolding Castiel out loud for not voicing his needs and himself internally for not remembering to offer, considering the circumstances. 

With both of them full and sated, they head north around the Ellipse to check out the White House from as close as one can get without visitor’s passes (yet another thing neither of them had thought far enough ahead to purchase), gawking like tourists through the iron fence. They take pictures of each other with Dean’s phone for no other reason than it feels as if they _should,_ and then Castiel holds his arm out for a selfie, tilting his head in so that his hair brushes against Dean’s cheek. When Dean looks at the picture after, he hardly recognizes the beaming man looking back, his face slightly sunburned and _happier_ than he’s ever seen in the mirror. 

Deciding to wander back in the direction of their hotel, they take the route that goes past Ford’s Theatre and the FBI building. They take pictures in front of both and then accidentally get lost trying to find the memorial for fire dogs, ending up in front of the Newseum. Castiel looks up at it longingly, and Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing him by the hand to pull him inside. He pays, and it’s well worth it, and not just because Castiel seems to love every single display. Dean himself lingers in the Pulitzer hall, reading all the stories that accompany the winning photos until Castiel appears at his side and yanks him along. The best part though, is the Terrace that overlooks Pennsylvania Avenue and the Capitol building, and he and Cas hang out there for a long time just enjoying watching the world go by and, Dean’s pretty sure, each other’s company. 

When they finally leave, Dean hands Castiel his phone and tells him to pick somewhere for dinner, whatever he wants, and to not worry about the cost. 

“I know exactly where to go,” Castiel tells him after a curiously short few minutes of scrolling. “It’s just down the street, follow me.” He doesn’t exactly give him a choice, holding Dean’s hand tightly as he uses the phone to navigate and weaves in and around other pedestrians. Not that Dean minds in the least.

They come to a stop in front of a cafe with a sign that says, “DC Central Kitchen.” 

“A deli, Cas?” Dean questions. “You sure? This isn’t some attempt to find the cheapest thing around, is it?” But Castiel shakes his head and faces the phone towards Dean.

“It’s much more than a cafe, Dean,” he explains, pointing to the screen. “All the proceeds go towards breaking the cycle of hunger and poverty in the city by providing job training to young people and eliminating food waste by transforming it into homemade meals for local homeless shelters, nonprofits, and low-income school children. This is, without question, where I want to eat.” 

Shocked, Dean can only nod and follow him in, but he soon goes to town scooping up multiple salads, sandwiches, and snacks to bring back with them. He tries not to dwell too much on why Castiel clearly feels connected to this place, but he’s more than glad to be a part of it, in some small way. As they’re leaving, Castiel questions his purchases.

“You have six salads, Dean.” 

He just shrugs and avoids Castiel’s piercing eye contact. “Guilt,” he replies honestly, and Castiel laughs, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. 

“Fair enough,” he replies. “May I make a suggestion?” Dean raises his eyebrows and waits as Castiel stops walking. He nods up the street and just behind them, indicating several homeless people sitting on the sidewalk. “I suspect they’d appreciate them more than us,” he says pointedly, and Dean wants to kiss him. Wants to toss all the food to the side, grab his face and kiss the worried, pained look he’s trying to hide away. 

But instead, he smiles back and says, “Of course, absolutely, Cas,” and follows behind him as he does his thing. Castiel’s charming and friendly towards every person he approaches, and more than once Dean finds himself settling down on the sidewalk as Cas gets engaged in a lengthy conversation with someone. By the time they reach their hotel, he’s exhausted, they’re down to one salad and one sandwich between them, and Dean’s never been happier to _not_ have food in his life. He stops Castiel before they can walk inside with a hand on his arm. “You’re…” He trails off and shakes his head, at a loss for words as Castiel blinks up at him curiously. He licks his lips and watches as Cas’ eyes dart from his own, down to his mouth and back, and decides not to overthink it. 

Right there, in the middle of the covered valet parking lot, Dean leans in, closing the space between them to press his lips softly against Castiel’s. The world goes quiet, narrowing down to the two of them in a way Dean’s never experienced before as their mouths touch, and he keeps his eyes open just long enough to see Cas’ flutter closed. Cas opens a little to kiss back and it’s soft, and sweet, just like him, with Dean at exactly the right height to tip his head down slightly and fit them together. When he pulls away, it takes Castiel a second to come back to himself, opening his eyes to reveal irises darker than when he’d closed them.

“Why did you do that?” He whispers, drifting closer to where Dean’s moved away.

Dean swallows and lets him, stepping forward too until they’re almost chest to chest, closer than they were while kissing. “Was I out of line?” 

Castiel just shakes his head no and leans in, kissing him soft but sure. “No,” he says against Dean’s lips. “Definitely not.” 

The ride up to their room is filled with shy smiles and the brushing of hands and arms, but neither of them seems in any hurry to escalate things. As Dean holds open the door to the suite, Castiel touches his chin as he walks by, setting their remaining food down on the dining table. 

“Still up for a swim?” Dean asks, pulling out the last sandwich from the bag and taking half before handing the other over to Cas. “We can eat first, it’s only seven. Plenty of time before the pool closes. I was thinking of grabbing a six-pack then, from the store in the lobby, maybe. I haven’t had a beer in ages, feels like that kind of night.” 

“Oh does it?” Castiel asks playfully, settling into a chair across from Dean. “Trying to get me tipsy so that you can take advantage?” 

That thought horrifies Dean, and he says so. “Jesus, Cas, no, I would never—”

“Relax,” he interrupts with a smirk. “It was a joke, you know, so that I can tell you there’s no need for such a thing.” He winks and Dean’s face burns. He clears his throat and focuses on his sandwich.

“It’s a plan, then,” he says, around a mouthful of ham. 

“It’s a plan,” Castiel agrees. 

***

It turns out that Castiel _loves_ the pool, floats on his back for nearly an hour and then does laps back and forth as if he didn’t just walk fifteen miles around the city today. Dean finds himself exhausted just watching, and finally plants himself in front of him in the water, causing Castiel to run headlong into him and come up sputtering. 

“Pool’s closing soon,” he says with a smirk, as Castiel shakes his head and spits out the water he’d inhaled. His little prank backfires as Cas jumps him, knocking him down and sending him floundering as his feet kick out from under him in the waist-high water. He gasps as he surfaces again, only to find himself with a lapful of Cas, arms winding around his neck and mouth pressing insistently against his own. “You’re forgiven,” he mumbles against Castiel’s lips, blindly attempting to steer them over to the stairs so that nobody loses their footing and drowns. They kiss like that for what feels like a ridiculously long time, hands skating over bare skin and legs tangled together under the water until a hotel employee blocks out the artificial light from above and clears his throat. 

“Right,” Dean says, licking his kiss-swollen lips and looking up guiltily. “Time to move this party upstairs.” Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from Castiel and exits the pool, handing over a towel to his friend and doing his best to look appropriately abashed. Cas, on the other hand, has no such qualms and continues openly staring at Dean and sporting a smile so wide it’s contagious. Dean bites his lip and looks down while he puts on his shoes so that he doesn’t succumb, but as soon as he’s ready to go he looks up and just like that, he’s done for. 

Their dopey grins last as they trek through the lobby hand in hand, up the elevator, and back into the room. Too late, Dean realizes he’s forgotten his beer, but he’s drunk enough on _Cas_ that he can’t even care. Castiel disappears into the bathroom and comes out in fresh, dry boxer briefs, and so Dean does the same, and by unspoken agreement they fall into bed together, quiet and just tired enough to be satisfied with simply holding hands. Dean feels lips brush his mouth as his eyes drift closed, and he leans forward, seeking more and finding it. They kiss slow and easy in the dark until neither of their eyes can stay open for even one second longer, and Dean falls asleep with Cas’ hand resting on his hip. 

It feels _so_ unbelievably _good._


	3. Home is The Eye of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so much good stuff in here... canon references, Cas' backstory, things not going to plan, a special appearance, and a big friggin' surprise I think a lot of you were hoping for. ;-) Enjoy!
> 
> P.S., I'm behind on comments, I figured you'd rather have another chapter more, but I will catch up tomorrow. Thank you all so much for the feedback, it's much appreciated and very motivating to get keep going. :) <3

Dean proposes that they do some research before hitting the road the next morning, and ultimately they resort to a game of rock, paper, scissors as the decider between two potential next stops. Cas comes out victorious, and the smile on his face makes Dean sure he wouldn’t have it any other way. Not to mention that Cas’ suggestion sounds pretty damn awesome, and exactly what he probably needs after so much driving and the hustle and bustle of the city. They decide together to go for a rental this time instead of a hotel, and then Dean leaves Cas to book it and sort out the rest as he puts the car in gear and navigates them out onto the road.

Getting out of the city is much harder than getting into it, and Dean’s swearing up a storm by the time they merge onto 395 South. “Everyone in this city drives like an asshole,” he fumes as the roadway finally clears and opens up. He presses down on the gas pedal and once again feels somewhat disappointed when the car doesn’t rev and take off, just accelerates smoothly with an increased hum. _Unsatisfying._

Castiel doesn’t answer, but he does catch Dean’s attention by unbuckling his seatbelt and proceeding to shove himself through the small opening between the two front seats and into the back. “Cas, what the—ouch,” Dean grumbles as Cas accidentally whacks him in the shoulder with his knee. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, settling himself down with a hip on the part of the middle console that juts out into the backseat. He fiddles around for a moment and then Dean watches in the rearview mirror as he pulls off the headrest and drops it to the floor, making room for his arms as his hands come to rest on Dean’s shoulders. Gently, he starts to knead, leaning in to kiss behind Dean’s ear softly until he relaxes. 

“Oh,” Dean sighs, the tension bleeding slowly out of his upper body and into Cas’ hands. It’s been _years_ since he’s been touched just for the sake of comfort or relaxation and Cas’ fingers are extremely skilled. “Ugh, that feels so good.” He glances up to see Castiel smiling down at him and shakes his head. “I’m going to have to pull over if you keep that up,” he warns. “I’m halfway to human puddle already.” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Castiel replies, warm breath ghosting over the shell of Dean’s ear as he leans in. 

“Yea, except, as nice as this is, you ever been pulled over by a Maryland State Trooper? They’re ruthless.” 

Castiel just shrugs and presses his hands flat over the crisp material of Dean’s long-sleeved button-down shirt, sliding them down over his collarbone and continuing across his pecs until he’s hugging Dean from behind. His lips skate along the column of Dean’s throat, making the hair on his arms stand on end and forcing an involuntary swallow out of him as he struggles to focus on the road. And then just like that, Cas is gone, his warm presence sadly missing from Dean’s side as he pops the headrest back in and wiggles his way back through to the front seat. “Wouldn’t want to stress you out more,” he says with a wink as Dean glances over at him, incredulous.

“Dick,” Dean murmurs, but he’s smiling. 

The ride to their next destination is about the same distance as their first leg from Columbus to D.C., and they decide to stop again around three hours in. This time, they get off the highway and Dean picks the restaurant; a seafood buffet place he knows for a fact Cas would never look twice at solely based on the prices. Proven right as soon as Cas takes one glance at the menu, Dean ignores his protests and hauls him out of the car, shutting him up by threading a hand into his hair and kissing him against the car door until he relents. 

“Do you _like_ seafood, is all I asked, Cas,” he reminds him, and gets a half-hearted glare in return. 

“I love it,” he mumbles grumpily but doesn’t protest further when Dean takes his hand and leads him inside. 

Despite his extremely vocal misgivings, Castiel devours the buffet heartily, and his appetite has Dean throwing out his usual inhibitions and conservative eating aside once again. Together they inhale more than their fair share of crab legs, shrimp, clams, and crawfish by the truckload. At one point, Cas returns to the table with an entire platter of oysters and makes an offhand comment about them supposedly being an aphrodisiac just as Dean’s tipping one down his throat, causing him to sputter and nearly choke. All-in-all, it’s perhaps the best meal Dean’s had in years, and not just because of the food. He finds he’s hard-pressed to remember the last time he’s even gone out and sat down at a restaurant, never mind with good company, dwelling instead on all the protein shakes and dressing-free salads he’s downed at his office desk by himself. 

He sits back in his chair and breathes, stuffed as full as he imagines it’s possible for him to get and watches Cas inhale the last of the oysters. Dean chuckles as lemon juice goes trickling down Cas’ chin, his tongue darting out in a crappy, messy attempt to lick it up. Smiling at Cas’ resulting glare, Dean closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself reflect on the past several days. He’s gone from mindless corporate drone to free spirit seemingly overnight, from intentionally starving to frequently over-indulging, and from lonely to… _what,_ exactly? He opens his eyes again and takes in Castiel, who’s returned again from the buffet with two plates of strawberry shortcake, placing one in front of Dean with a wink. 

What is Cas to him, anyway? His friend? Friend seems like the wrong word, considering, but they’re hardly in a place where either could possibly be ready to declare any kind of commitment, not after only three days and a little kissing. Although, Dean supposes the road trip in and of itself is a sort of commitment, really. He chews the inside of his cheek and thinks. Friends with benefits? No, that’s _too_ casual. Love interest? _That_ sounds like something out of a shitty romance novel. 

After a few minutes of back and forth with himself, Dean gives up trying to sort out a label to slap on whatever’s between them and flags down the waiter for their bill so that they can head out and get back on the road. Whatever they are, one thing is for sure, it’s time he and Castiel get to know each other better, and that’s exactly what Dean intends to do with the next three hours. 

Up until this point, the little conversation they’ve had about their personal lives has been shallow, at best. Dean knows that Castiel claims not to have any family to speak of, but that’s all he knows. In return, Cas knows Dean worked at Sandover, went to Stanford, is (was?) a bit of a health freak, and has two parents and a sister in South Dakota, but only really because that’s their eventual destination. 

Shallow might be an understatement.

But as they walk to the car, Castiel shoving his shoulder into Dean’s playfully at every opportunity, the early afternoon sun warm on their faces and accentuating Cas’ smile, Dean _feels_ like he knows a lot more. He knows Cas is gentle, and kind, that he cares deeply about other people’s pain. He knows Cas is sweet, affectionate, and funny in a dry, sarcastic way that Dean finds endearing as hell. He can tell that Cas is carrying something, the weight of a secret or maybe just something he did in his past that he wishes he could take back. He’s dying to know what it is, for Castiel to _want_ to let him in, to share that part of himself with him. 

Dean watches as Castiel opens the trunk of the Prius and fishes in his backpack tucked inside for those pills again, popping one with a swig from the bottle of water he pinched from the hotel room. As he’s about to close the hatch again, he pauses, and peers into the box of items from Dean’s desk he’d forgotten he’d left back there. 

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Why is there a plant in the trunk of your car?” 

Coming to stand alongside him, Dean realizes quickly that Cas is referring to the little potted flower his mother gave him for his desk. “Oh, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, feeling somewhat embarrassed about his inability to keep even a tiny plant alive. Part of him wants to lie, but right before the words can roll off of his tongue he remembers what he’d _just_ been contemplating. Does he want to continue to be shallow with Cas, or does he want something more? One of them is going to have to be first to give a little, and Dean supposes it might as well be him. “My mom gave it to me for my office, but I accidentally let it die. Messed up priorities and all that,” he admits guiltily. “Couldn’t bring myself to throw it out or leave it behind. Maybe before we head to their house I should stop and get a new flower to stick in there. Shame if my mom figured out what a fuckup I turned out to be. Couldn’t even keep a damn plant alive.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes and tilts his head, regarding Dean seriously before returning his attention to the wilted stalks that represent Dean’s complete failure to adult. He pokes gently at the brown, crumbling leaves and brings the whole pot up to eye level. “Hmm,” he says. “This plant isn’t dead, not completely,” he announces after a minute or two.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Castiel replies with a nod, setting the plant down and uncapping his water bottle again. “We’ll help her come back around. She just needs a little TLC, after all.” He pours enough water into the pot (almost all of it) that the soil turns from dry and light to dark and saturated, then opens the rear door and sticks the pot up on the little ledge behind the headrests in the back seat. “The indirect light back here is perfect.”

“I’ll have to trust your judgment on that,” Dean tells him. “I think my thumb is black.” 

“I don’t think you tried hard enough to know that.” Castiel pushes back against Dean’s assessment as he opens his own door, and Dean grins sheepishly, shrugging as he hops into the front seat. 

There’s around a half-hour after leaving the restaurant where Dean has to focus on the maps and the road, finding their way back to the highway and ensuring that they’re headed in the right direction again, but as soon as they’re settled, he turns his attention back to Castiel. The man’s reclined in his seat as if he intends to take a nap, and Dean pokes him in his side, right under the ribs.

“Hey!” Castiel protests, curling up in self-defense and glaring at Dean. “Bad touching,” he grumbles. 

“Talk to me,” Dean insists, ignoring his attitude. “I told you about the plant, now you owe me something about you.” 

“Oh do I?” Dean turns his head just in time to see Castiel licking his lips with one eyebrow raised and quickly whips it back, resolutely ignoring how hot under the collar that expression makes him. He _definitely_ wouldn’t be opposed to Cas looking at him like that in _other,_ more intimate circumstances. His face must flush with his thoughts because Castiel laughs and Dean steadily refuses to look back over at him, focusing intently on the road instead. “You’re so easy to work up,” Castiel murmurs quietly. “I enjoy it immensely.” 

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean argues weakly, doing his best to redirect the conversation back to his request and not even solely due to his own embarrassment. He really does want to know more about his new friend. “Maybe the plant thing seems dumb to you, but I wouldn’t normally admit that to anyone.” 

“Interesting,” Castiel replies, and then there’s silence. When Dean looks over, he’s back to staring out the window. Feeling defeated and just a _little_ bit rejected, Dean sighs and turns up the music slightly only to feel a hand covering his own, pushing it away gently so it can turn the volume back down. “I was just thinking,” Castiel explains, before clearing his throat. “The thing is, Dean, perhaps I don’t want to share with you for selfish reasons. There are pieces of me that you wouldn’t be wrong to judge harshly. Perhaps I’m worried that once you know those things, your interest in having me around will disintegrate like the leaves on that plant.” 

Glancing over, Dean sees that Cas is biting back a small smirk, probably related to the quip about his stupid plant, but behind it, deep in his eyes lurks real concern and worry. And maybe that should scare Dean, should make him want to run for the hills or at _least_ to tell Castiel to keep his shit to himself, that what Dean doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But Dean’s always been a glutton for punishment, always been a guy who can’t leave a scab unpicked. And for whatever reason, when it comes to Cas, Dean doesn’t want to be in the dark. _Something_ is brewing between them and Dean wants to keep it, but he knows he’ll never have a shot at doing so if he keeps wandering down this path with his eyes squeezed shut. 

_Throw caution to the wind, do things you’ve never done before, right? That’s what you’re doing out here, isn’t it? This thing with Cas is no different,_ he tells himself. 

He licks his lips and turns to look Castiel dead in the eyes. “Tell me,” he says firmly. “I want to know, you’re not going to scare me away that easily.” When Castiel hesitates again, Dean reaches out to take his hand. “Shit, Cas,” he says, “I picked up a homeless guy and invited him on a cross-country road trip. If either of us thinks the other’s got issues, pretty sure it should be you to me. Now c’mon, do your worst. Scare the pants off of me.” 

“We could do that instead,” Castiel muses, clearly stalling for time. “We haven’t—” 

“Raincheck,” Dean interrupts cheekily, flashing Cas a wide smile. 

“You’re assuming you’ll want one after you hear this,” he mutters in return, averting his eyes. 

Dean sighs in exasperation, removing his hand and returning it to the steering wheel. “Why don’t you just fuckin’ try me? I’ve accepted you so far, I dunno why you think whatever’s in your past would change things so damn much. We all got ghosts, Cas. Whatever you’ve done can’t be worse than ending up almost thirty and having nothin’ in your life but a damn office job.”

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel barks a short laugh that seems somewhat out of place, and then he’s back to staring at Dean in that intense, searching way of his, biting at his thumb nail as he tries to burn a hole through Dean’s skull with his eyeballs. 

“Alright,” he says finally. “May I start with a question?” 

“Sure,” Dean replies, confused but hopeful since Cas actually seems to be interested in talking.

“Dean, do you know who C.J. Novak is?” 

Scrunching up his face in thought, Dean wracks his brain. The name sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it, like an itch that’s _just_ out of reach to be scratched. “Think about Sandover,” Castiel encourages, and _click, snap, pop,_ the pieces in Dean’s head slot into place and he remembers. 

“The C.E.O. before Zachariah,” he says excitedly. “Yea, I remember now, he was ousted by the board for some big financial screw-up. I kinda came in on the bubble of that whole thing. Zachariah recruited me himself, said he was turning over his whole team. I never met that Novak guy, but now that you mention it, I do remember hearing about him.” The smile fades slowly off of his face as confusion replaces his excitement. “Wait,” he says, looking over at Castiel. “What’s C.J. Novak got to do with you?” 

Castiel laughs again, quiet and short, and Dean’s ears find the sound bitter. “Dean,” he says patiently, as if he’s explaining something very simple to a small child. “I am C.J. Novak. Castiel James Novak, to be precise. And incidentally, _I_ recruited you, not Zachariah.” 

Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean does a dramatic double-take that makes Castiel duck his head before pulling his leg up onto the seat and dropping his chin into his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. “I can explain,” he offers evenly, waiting patiently as Dean’s brain struggles to catch up with the bomb he just dropped.

“You’re… but… you were homeless,” Dean says lamely. 

“I was,” Castiel agrees. “Would you like to hear why?” Still struck dumb, Dean just nods and briefly considers pulling the car over until he has a better handle on himself. He doesn’t though, instead shaking himself off and gluing the scattered pieces of his brain back together so that he can pay attention to _C.J. Novak’s_ explanation of why he’s been camping on the street outside his own company. 

But Castiel doesn’t answer right away, reaching into the backseat to grab the little bag he’d tossed there earlier, the one Dean knows stores his weed inside of it. He stays quiet as he packs a bowl and lights it, offering it to Dean who refuses this time, wanting to be one hundred percent clear-headed for the story that’s (hopefully) coming. That sort of gets tossed to shit when he breathes in after Cas breathes out without opening a window, but in the end, Dean figures he could probably use a little relaxing, anyway. He tries his best to be patient but after several minutes of continued silence and Castiel sullenly staring out the window again, Dean can’t help himself.

“Cas, _C.J.,_ what the fuck?” 

Castiel just rolls his eyes. “My name is _Castiel_ , my middle name is James. Please don’t call me C.J. C.J. Novak is dead, Zachariah made sure of that,” he mumbles, and Dean’s not sure he really meant to say that last part out loud. Before he can say anything else, though, Castiel continues. “Dean, why were you fired from Sandover? Specifics, if you don’t mind.” 

Wondering if Castiel’s actually going somewhere with this or just avoiding telling his own story, Dean hesitates at first to reply, but his common sense tells him that whatever Cas is hiding, it’s no small thing. Maybe he needs more from Dean than some dumb story about a plant to feel secure in telling it. “Well,” he starts, “According to Zachariah, I cost the company a lot of money.” He shoots a glance over at Cas, expecting to see him gazing out the window again, but finds him looking back, listening attentively. He clears his throat. “There was this huge sale I closed at the beginning of the last quarter. I was really proud of it, Zachariah seemed happy too, at the time. I did everything right, Cas, I was sure of it. But the other day when he fired me, I dunno.” Dean shakes his head and leans an elbow on the door of the car, resting his head on his hand. “This is gonna sound crazy, but it felt like a setup.” 

“What felt like a setup?” Castiel prods.

“The order sheets,” Dean replies. “He said the company that I closed the big deal with called and complained that I screwed up their order. Showed me the products Roman Enterprises had listed and they didn’t match the ones with my signature on it. It looked like I upsold them without their permission, they refused the whole order.”

Castiel lets out a laugh and takes another hit from his bowl. “And let me guess,” he says, the smoke curling smoothly from his mouth. “Zachariah told you he was going to have to give them a discount to get them to take the order? That you cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps more?” 

Dean’s brow furrows and he nods. “Something like that,” he replies.

A hum slipping out around the next mouthful of smoke, Castiel leans back against his seat and sighs. “Zachariah is my uncle,” he says, and Dean’s not sure his eyebrows could go any higher at this point. “P.T. Sandover was my father. That wasn’t his real name, but that’s beside the point. I took over when he died, and Zach always resented me for it. I suppose he thought he was better suited, more entitled, or something. I knew, of course, but I never suspected he hated me so much that he’d do what he did.” 

Almost afraid to ask, Dean whispers, “What did he do?” 

“Ruined me,” Castiel replies bluntly. “I’m fairly certain he’s been in league with Roman Industries for years. He probably made a lot of money orchestrating that mess to look as if you screwed up. Roman got discounted product, he received a payoff, everyone wins. Except you, of course. Did he mention anything about “Capital expenses?” 

Nodding slowly, Dean replies, “He said part of Roman Industries’ payment was earmarked for Capital spending, basically that the company would be responsible for that now, putting profit margins in the red.”

Castiel scoffs. “And I’m sure he told the board that whatever amount was supposedly lost had to be stricken from the Capital budget. Meanwhile, it went directly into his bank account.”

“Cas, how would you know all that?”

Looking him directly in the eye, Castiel smiles sadly. “Because it’s what he accused me of doing. Rallied the whole board behind him, ousted me and ruined my reputation in one fell swoop.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathes, and he _is,_ he had no idea and feels horrible for Cas. He hadn’t known any specifics regarding the former CEO’s removal, just what Zachariah had told him, which in retrospect must have been carefully curated to keep him from digging too deeply into it. “So he was setting me up from the start,” he realizes. 

“Most likely,” Castiel replies, lighting up one last time before putting the bowl away. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” 

“Well, if that’s the case, then he did me a favor,” Dean says, though Castiel looks over at him skeptically. “Like hell, I’d want to work for someone like that. And, you know, I’m uh…” He trails off, darting unsure glances in Castiel’s direction while he continues to stare back, undaunted. “I’m glad I’m here with you,” he finally spits out. 

Castiel smiles widely for a moment, but it disappears again just as quickly. “Dean, there’s more you should know,” he says reluctantly. “Not about Sandover, but about me.” Dean nods and waits patiently while Castiel seems to collect himself. He blows out a breath. “I lived an extravagant life, Dean. As CEO, I had everything I could want at my fingertips. Money, power, respect. And then just like that,” he snaps his fingers, “It was all gone, and I was a regular Joe.” 

“Welcome to the club,” Dean quips with a small smile. 

“Thanks,” Castiel replies ruefully, reaching over to squeeze Dean’s thigh. When he takes his hand away, Dean finds himself wishing he’d leave it. “Except I used to belong to a much better club.” He chuckles darkly. “It was a shock, you know? I was powerless. And not just that, I was hapless, hopeless. I had nothing and no one. I thought, why the hell _not_ bury myself in hedonism and decadence, right? The way I saw it, it was the end for me, and that's what decadence is _for_.” 

Castiel’s entire demeanor seems to change right in front of him, and as he talks, Dean catches a glimpse of the lingering pain and sadness, a hint of the desperation he must have felt back then. He doesn’t reply yet, just waits to see if Cas has more to say, and as it turns out, he does.

“I threw myself down that hole, Dean, until I’d dug so deep there was no crawling out, not on my own. At first, it was fun. Blowing my money on drugs, alcohol, women, men, whatever I felt like. I woke up every morning in my penthouse thinking, why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? That was just how I rolled." His hands tighten on his own thighs this time, knuckles turning white. “What I didn’t realize was that Zachariah had taken things so much further than I’d thought. My removal from my position was the tip of the iceberg. He knew how far I’d fallen, and he took advantage of my mental state. He actually filed _charges,_ and the FBI put a hold on my accounts. If I’d been in a better frame of mind, I could have fought, I probably would have won. There was no evidence, nothing tying me to those crimes besides Zachariah’s claims. But the fact is, I was drunk or high and completely wrapped up in myself every moment of every day back then. I missed court dates and meetings with my lawyer. I was lucky not to end up in jail, honestly. The end result was that they froze my accounts before returning the money I’d supposedly stolen back to Sandover. I was too out of it to even notice, that is until the day my Penthouse key stopped working.” 

He looks over at Dean with trepidation in his face, and Dean works hard to keep his own expression neutral. He reaches across the seat to take Cas’ hand. “I believe you, Cas,” he says quietly. “Then what happened?” 

Castiel shrugs but allows Dean to lace their fingers together. “Then I was on my own with the clothes on my back, a pocketful of drugs, and nothing else. After a few blurry months of crashing wherever I passed out, I ended up detoxing unwillingly in an inpatient psych ward. When I got out, I was sober for the first time in ages, and I swore I’d make Zachariah sorry. Or perhaps beg him to take me back, either or. But it was no use,” he says, his expression darkening. “My credibility was destroyed. I made phone calls to the FBI, met with a lawyer, left messages on Zachariah’s phone that naturally, he did not return. By that time, it was over a year after I’d been fired and I’d squandered my opportunity to defend myself. I crashed with a friend, a former employee, actually, who was very kind but was also engaged and soon would have no room for me. He never asked me to leave outright, but I felt guilty intruding on his new married life with my problems.” 

Dean gives Cas’ hand a soft squeeze and stays quiet while he continues to talk, clearly retreating into his own head as he relives those days. “My friend gave me the sleeping bag and I left his home with the things I have with me now. I panicked the first night I tried to sleep sober on the streets. It was terrifying and lonely, and I very nearly fell back into old habits. Not wanting to wind up dead in a drug den, the next morning I stumbled down to the clinic on North High Street as soon as it opened. Thankfully, I encountered a very empathetic provider who prescribed anti-anxiety medication and paid the seven dollar fee for me to fill it at Walmart. It wasn’t quite enough, but it helped. With some successful panhandling, I was able to buy some weed, and that helped more.”

“But why sleep in front of Sandover?” Dean asks. “Seems…” 

“Like rubbing salt in the wound?” Castiel guesses and Dean nods. “I wanted Zachariah to see me, every day he walked by. The first time I showed up there, it was to ask for his help, as his nephew. He treated me the same way you witnessed the day we first met, and from there on out, I resolved to get in his face, to keep him from forgetting what he’d done to me.” Castiel shrugs, almost appearing embarrassed. “It was a goal, a reason to go on, whereas before I’d had nothing. It wasn’t as if I could attain gainful employment. If Zachariah’s smear job on my reputation hadn’t done enough, I had no identifying documents besides my license. McDonald’s wouldn’t even interview me without two forms of ID.” 

“America,” Dean snorts. “That makes sense.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replies, looking down at the space between them. “You’re still holding my hand,” he observes, and Dean smiles out at the road in front of them.

“Yea,” he agrees. “Did you want me to let go?”

“Not at all.” Castiel settles back against his seat again, apparently loosening up now that he’s sure Dean won’t kick him to the curb after spilling his guts. “Just making an observation.” His voice is casual, but his fingers flex and then clench even more tightly around Dean’s hand, and Dean doesn’t try to let go. 

***

_Waves, North Carolina_

For the next hour or so, the conversation goes back to being light and easy. Dean learns a few more things about Castiel, including that his mother died when he was young and he has no siblings or really any recollection of her at all. He tells Dean that he likes bees and that one of his greatest regrets about working at Sandover was that his job didn’t leave him enough time to keep them.

“In the next life,” he replies airily, when Dean mentions he still could, someday in the future. 

In return, Dean does his best to spill as much about himself as he can think of. He talks about the kind of music he likes (all kinds of rock, and occasionally a little Taylor Swift, if he’s being honest), his childhood in South Dakota, and his favorite TV shows and movies, _none_ of which Castiel has seen, not one.

“How is that even possible?! _Everyone_ knows Star Wars, Cas, seriously?” 

But Castiel just shrugs apologetically and continues sifting his fingers through Dean’s hair. At some point during the ride, he’d forgone his seatbelt completely and moved over to lean against Dean’s side. He’s basically sitting in the console, and Dean can’t imagine it’s remotely comfortable, but Cas seems content and Dean’s certainly not going to turn down the phenomenal scalp massage he’s been receiving for the last forty miles or so. “You’ll just have to show me,” he replies, invoking images in Dean’s head of this whole scene transposed onto a comfortable couch, beer and popcorn in the mix and a marathon of media in front of them while Cas does _exactly_ what he’s doing now, potentially minus some clothes. Dean and his dick both agree that sounds like _the best_ idea they’ve heard in a while. 

“Hey check it out,” Dean says with a nod towards the sign they’re passing that indicates the Wright Memorial Bridge is just up ahead. “Got forty-five minutes or so left to drive, but we’re in the Outer Banks once we clear that bridge!” 

“I hope the ocean is warm enough to swim,” Castiel muses. “I’ve never been in the Atlantic before.” 

“Me, either,” Dean replies with a wide smile.

The rest of the drive is smooth and thankfully traffic-free. Dean makes contact with their host via the booking app they’d found the rental house on and she lets him know that the keys are in the mailbox outside the house. Unfortunately, however, her message is followed up with a warning. Dean pulls into the parking lot of a local store to read it, and finds himself elbowing Castiel to get his attention.

“Cas,” he says urgently. “We may have a problem.”

“Hmm?”

“Shit. Our host says there’s a hurricane expected to roll in within the next twelve hours or so.” Dean scrolls his phone and picks out important details to repeat. “She says she understands if we don’t want to stay, she’ll refund our money no questions asked, but that the house is as hurricane-proofed as a property on the beach can get, and the meteorologists say it shouldn’t be too bad, mostly big waves, wind, and rain. Apparently, she’s local too, just down the street from the rental and she says no one she knows is evacuating.” 

He turns his head to gauge Cas’ reaction but honestly, the idea of riding out a _hurricane_ in a house that sits only a few hundred yards from the sea smack in the middle of a barrier island sounds terrifying to Dean. He wants to be brave and have _experiences_ or whatever it is his dad was after, but this one seems a little nutty, maybe even downright dangerous, and he half-hopes Cas will give him the easy out.

 _No such luck._ “A hurricane? That sounds fascinating,” Castiel replies immediately, a mischievous glint reflecting in his eye. “Imagine watching the waves roll in, the wind whipping the sea into a frenzy…” He trails off as he studies Dean’s face. “I can see that you don’t agree. That’s alright, Dean. If you’re afraid, we can certainly keep moving.” His hand settles at the back of Dean’s neck, warm and reassuring, and yet, Dean can’t help but feel that Cas’ words are a bit of a challenge. “It _would_ be somewhat reckless to stay, I suppose.” 

“Reckless?” Dean parrots back faintly.

“Okay, if you don’t like reckless, I could use ‘insouciant,’ maybe,” Castiel shrugs. 

“‘M not afraid,” he insists, rather petulantly. “I’m _sane,_ is all. Pretty sure that when you hear a hurricane is coming, normal people don’t run towards the ocean.” 

“Both of us were _normal_ once,” Castiel reminds him. “Grinding ten-hour days under office fluorescents. I don’t know about you, but trying to be normal didn’t wind up doing much for me.” He says his piece so calmly and lightly that it doesn’t feel half as manipulative as Dean knows it to be _,_ but he finds himself sighing and tipping his head back to look Castiel in the eyes anyway.

“I take it you want to stay,” he offers, and Castiel grins, leaning in to kiss him on the mouth. The soft press of lips deepens and turns heated, Castiel gripping his chin and licking into his mouth until they’re both breathless and Dean’s pants are a little tight. 

“I think I could make it worth our while,” Castiel tells him, and Dean nods weakly, a complete sucker for _whatever_ Cas might ask for at that moment.

“Guess we should grab some supplies,” he says, Cas’ hand still sliding down the side of his face, their eyes still locked together. 

“That is generally what one does at a store,” Castiel replies seriously, pulling away and disappearing out of the car with a loud moan as he stretches and pops his stiff back. 

“Dick,” Dean whispers to himself, but once again, he finds he doesn’t mind at all. 

***

Laden down with food, water, ice, candles, a shit ton of alcohol, and various other provisions in case they get stuck in their rental during the storm, Castiel and Dean make the last leg of their trip fairly easily. They only need to drive a few streets over and down from the store to their new little home away from home, and Dean recognizes it from the pictures immediately as they make their way down the gravel street. 

The house they’d chosen together is a cute little light blue structure that’s shaped sort of like a barn and, like its neighbors, is perched high atop wooden stilts that are anchored firmly into the concrete slab below. Dean feels a little better already as they drive up, seeing how high the house sits and how far away the ocean actually is. There’s even a little hill between them and the sea, and it feels like a barrier the water will have to overcome if it wants to get to them. As false a sense of security though it may be, Dean figures he’s in it for the long haul at this point, and he might as well take whatever comfort he can get. It’s that or beg Cas to share his anti-anxiety medication, though frankly, he’s not ready to rule that out.

Dean parks the Prius on the concrete slab underneath the house and steps out into the warm, salt-laden air. He stretches luxuriously and takes a moment to step outside the shadow of the building and just admire the view. A few seagulls pass overhead, cawing and swooping down towards the water which is bright blue with soft, white-capped waves that look inviting as hell after all that time spent cooped up in the car. The air around him feels crisp and clean, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It certainly doesn’t _feel_ as if they’re in any impending danger, and Dean decides to take that as a good omen. 

Castiel appears at his side, gentle concern alighting on his face. “If this idea truly isn’t something you want to do, please say so, Dean,” he coaches him softly. “I would never think any less of you, I promise.” And Dean has to admit, as he looks between the sparkling ocean and Cas’ earnest face, he’s hard-pressed to remember what he was so worried about to begin with.

What’s a little wind and rain against a _house_ , anyway?

He grins at Castiel before shoving him away and bolting up the weathered wooden steps as fast as his legs will carry him. “Race you to the Jacuzzi!” 

***

The front of the storm rolls in around midnight, long after Cas and Dean have both gone for dips in the (very chilly) ocean, grilled steak and shrimp on the barbeque, and each consumed a respectable amount of both beer and weed. Showered and dry and extremely cozy and comfortable curled up on the couch, by the time the rain starts pounding down on the roof, Dean hardly remembers why he was worried about it at all. In fact, he’s just over two hours into turning his daydream fantasy movie night from the car into a reality, and he’s far more concerned about the fact that _Tombstone_ might be interrupted by a power loss than any potential danger either of them might be in. 

And anyway, there’s nothing to be done about it now. They’d brought everything in from the car earlier, just in case, though Dean still can’t imagine the sea crawling up and over the dunes at such a distance that its tentacles would reach them, but it can’t hurt to be cautious. Plus it’s dark outside, and while Dean’s hazy vision can see that the sea has swelled, that the gentle white foam produced by the breakers has spread and evolved into a frothy, violent foam extending as far out to sea as his eyes can distinguish, it all still looks like a sort of controlled chaos from where he’s sitting. It probably doesn’t hurt that _where he’s sitting_ is currently trapped underneath Castiel’s warm thighs, the man tucked securely into the vee of his legs and pressing open-mouthed, sucking kisses into his neck. Dean pokes at him intermittently, bitching at him to pay attention to the movie while secretly hoping he continues not to listen. 

They don’t end up getting any more physical that night than sweet presses of lips to mouths and skin, hands roaming over hard planes of muscle, chests pressed flush together under soft covers and crisp, clean sheets. It’s unlike anything Dean’s ever shared with another person, a far cry from the “love ‘em and leave ‘em” type of women and men he’d fuck out of frustration and superficial _want,_ always hightailing it out of there before his partner du jour had even made it back from the bathroom. His peaceful, serene buzz and Castiel’s quiet, stubborn intensity combine like a spark to dry kindling, setting Dean’s entire body ablaze and forging the kind of intimacy that transcends arousal and attraction, barreling discourteously through his mind and insisting that this, whatever it is between them, feels like _more._

He eventually falls asleep heavy and happy, the feel of Castiel’s lips on his skin and the taste of him in his mouth lingering long past any passing glimmer of consciousness. 

***

A roar that sounds like a train wakes Dean with a start and he sits bolt upright, one foot already flat on the floor, ready to beat down whatever intruder has dared disturb his (extremely deep) slumber. But when he looks around the room, no one is there and the bed next to him is empty once again. Despite the blinds being down, Dean can tell from the gloomy gray light seeping in through the small holes that it must be morning and a glance at the old-fashioned alarm clock set on the bedside table tells him he’s correct. 

_Nine AM, slept in again,_ he marvels. Either he’s been forcing himself into a sleep cycle his body clearly never actually jived with for years, or he’s playing catch up in a big way. Regardless, it feels good to sleep in, though he wishes Cas had stayed too. Thinking about Cas and how he’d feel sleep-warm and pliant in his arms makes Dean wonder _why_ he left, which reminds him of how he’d come to be awake in the first place. Just then, the noise comes again, howling and battering at the walls of the house, and Dean realizes with not a small amount of trepidation that it’s the _wind._

 _Holy hell,_ he thinks. He’d never realized the wind could sound like a freight car barreling down the tracks. He scratches at his chest underneath his tee and rummages in his bag for the pajama pants he’d ditched the night before and a sweatshirt since the room seems chilly. Stumbling out into the hallway, he flicks the light switch up and down, but to his dismay, nothing happens. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, shuffling down the carpeted hall and trying the light switch in the bathroom. Nothing. He groans and relieves himself in the dark, washing his hands before making his way out to the living room where he and Cas had binged movies the night before.

He finds Castiel sitting on top of the dining table which he’s dragged over to rest in front of the big, sliding glass doors. From there, he can look out over _what used to be_ the dunes and is now _totally fucking water._

“Holy shit!” Dean gapes in surprise, watching the tide visibly pump in and out, the waves rough and choppy as the wind creates a dangerous situation only feet below where they currently sit. The anxiety Dean felt yesterday at the idea of riding out this storm in the thick of it returns in full force, and this time it’s accompanied by a roiling fear that he and Cas might actually die here. He closes his eyes and stands stock still, trying his best to determine if the house is actually swaying, or if that’s just the increase in blood pumping through his head making him dizzy. To his surprise, the house feels as solid as ever, though that only brings him a miniscule ounce of relief. 

“Dean.” He hears his name and struggles to force his eyes open, but Dean honestly isn’t sure he wants to see that particular view ever again. Just the thought that they’re stranded in the middle of an incredibly powerful flood and undertow makes his stomach turn over as it threatens to attempt a great escape. For the first time, Dean starts to regret this trip. “ _Dean,”_ a familiar voice repeats insistently, and Dean manages to crack his lids open, immediately flooded once again by _blue,_ but this time it’s the perfect ocean-color it’s supposed to be, not that terrifying, grey mess swirling angrily outside. 

“Sorry, Cas,” he croaks out as Castiel leads him to the couch and forces him to sit down. 

“Stay,” he orders, as if Dean could even contemplate moving in his state. Cas disappears and returns momentarily with a teacup and saucer. “Electric kettle,” he explains. “There was a battery pack under the sink for small appliances. The place really is very well-stocked.” Dean drinks gratefully, and though he prefers coffee, Castiel’s sweetened the tea with honey and it goes down smooth and comforting. Just hot enough to warm his insides and drive the chill of fear from his bones. “It’s not as bad out there as it looks,” Castiel tells him. 

Away from the windows and feeling much calmer, Dean snorts. “You couldn’t have led with that?”

Castiel smiles up at him cheekily from his place between Dean’s knees and continues, ignoring his sass. “I spoke to our host, and she claims that this is no big deal. The ocean should recede by later tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. The eye has already passed over us and is headed up the coast. No one is panicking, Dean, and you shouldn’t either. Come, let me make you some breakfast.” 

Somehow, Castiel locates a hot plate and manages to put together a multi-course feast using only it, leaving Dean suitably impressed. When they’ve both stuffed themselves full of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, fresh fruit and more tea, he’s actually a little calmer, and a quick ( _brave)_ glance outside reveals that the sea apparently feels the same. It’s still gray and gloomy, the wind is still blowing and the rain is still falling, but it’s more in line with a shitty summer storm than a hurricane. If it weren’t for the swollen tide rocking persistently beneath them, Dean would probably think the entire thing a bit of a letdown. 

Catching him staring listlessly out the window, Castiel grabs Dean’s arm and spins him around, starting to pull at his shirts until he gets them up and over Dean’s head. He’s demanding and perfunctory, and Dean squints down at him once his head pops free of the t-shirt collar. “Cas, if you’re trying to seduce me, you might wanna put a little more effort in,” he says.

Smirking, Castiel reaches down and squeezes Dean’s soft cock through his flannel pajama pants. “Believe me, Dean, if I were trying to seduce you, you’d know.” He winks and then abruptly lets go of Dean’s (not quite as soft) cock, relocating his hands to his hips and yanking his pants down so that they pool around his ankles, leaving his boxers in place. 

“Hey! Cas—what the..?” Dean fumbles for his pants but Castiel stops him, shedding his own pajamas much more gracefully and then reaching for Dean’s hand. 

“Trust me,” he says softly, meeting Dean’s eyes and holding his gaze. “Would you do that?” 

“Trust you,” Dean repeats, doubtfully. “You’re not gonna swan dive off the balcony and into the ocean, are you?” 

Castiel laughs heartily, and Dean relaxes a little. “That would be insane, Dean,” he reassures him. “We’re looking for adventure, not a death wish.” He flicks open the lock on the patio door and pushes open the slider. As he steps out, he looks over his shoulder and grins at Dean. “You are going to get wet, though.” 

“I’d make a sex joke but I can tell you’re completely serious and I’m too busy trying not to shit my pants,” Dean grumbles, reluctantly allowing himself to be led through the doorway. The house boasts three sizeable decks; the one they’re standing on that’s outside the main living space, one outside the master bedroom, and the widow’s walk balanced above that. From a distance, the whole structure looks a bit like a precarious toothpick tower ready to come crashing down at any moment, but thankfully, Dean finds it surprisingly solid underneath his feet. He supposes this house has withstood far worse storms than this and vows to stop letting his panic over a silly thing like plunging to his death and drowning in hurricane-stoked waves ruin his day. 

One of the perks of the layered structure though is that the deck off of their bedroom is positioned directly above the one they’re standing on, creating a sort of shelter from the elements. Of course, this _is_ a hurricane, so the powerful winds spray both rain and seawater at them periodically from all sides anyway. Per the homeowner’s request, they’d pulled the grill inside the night before, but the wooden furniture and the jacuzzi that takes up a good portion of the left side of the deck were all plenty heavy enough to stay outside. Dean was relieved about that, the Jacuzzi looked heavy as hell.

Once they’re outside, Castiel heads straight for it, dropping Dean’s hand to struggle with the cover, folding it up and tipping it off the back so it crashes down to the deck floor. As the tub is revealed, Dean notices that the water is already bubbling like crazy, meaning that someone put the temperature up and turned on the jets, probably before he’d even woken up. 

“You can’t be serious,” he calls out, raising his voice to ensure Cas can hear him over the sound of storm and sea. “Isn’t that dangerous? Pretty sure you’re supposed to get _out_ of water when a storm hits.” 

But Castiel just climbs up onto the side of the tub and beckons him closer. “Hurricanes rarely produce lightning,” he calls back. “Do you hear any thunder? See any flashes? We’re perfectly safe.” 

“Famous last words,” Dean grumbles, but he follows Castiel in and can’t hold back the groaning sigh of relief he feels when the hot water envelopes his anxious body and sore muscles. Before he can sink down into one of the submerged built-in seats, Castiel grabs his hips and redirects his body between his own legs, settling Dean back against his chest. His thighs squeeze Dean’s thighs and an arm wraps around his stomach, Dean relaxing willingly into his grip, his head resting in the hollow between Cas’ neck and shoulder. 

“Do you feel safe now?” Castiel murmurs in his ear and Dean can almost feel the smirk he knows is gracing his mouth. He answers by squeezing Cas’ thigh with one hand, but the truth is that he _does._

The storm rages around them but the bubbles in the Jacuzzi burst warm and comforting as much as the wind tries to spit in cool rain. It feels as if they’re in a bubble, a place no one can touch, and even Dean has to admit that the ocean looks cool as hell stretching out endlessly in front of them. Terrifying, yes, but awesome. The effect is something akin to what being on a boat must feel like, minus, thankfully, the rocking sensations of being bounced over the waves. And Castiel, warm and solid and bracing at his back, feels like the harbor in the storm, an anchor where Dean was set adrift. It’s all he can do to just hold on tight and pray that he feels the same.

***

As relaxing as the Jacuzzi is, Dean’s anxiety still ends up getting the best of him. He’s able to ignore it for most of the day, tempered by a beer or two and a few hits of weed, plus the non-pharmaceutical kind of distraction that’s Castiel reading aloud from books and destroying his ass at card games. Dean’s always had a knack for poker, but never much time to polish his game, and Castiel wipes the floor with him repeatedly. And because he’s winning and because he’s _Cas,_ of course, he uses that to his advantage and suggests they switch to strip poker instead of using chips. And _that_ leads to a moment in the late afternoon where they’re making out on the couch, the cards (and clothes) strewn and scattered around them forgotten. 

Outside, the sounds of rain and wind grow dim and light and Dean absently thinks that the storm might finally be petering out. Castiel’s tongue drags along the length of his own, and Dean surrenders. The relief that they’ve actually made it through allows him to truly unclench and let himself get lost in Castiel’s hands, his mouth, the feel of their bodies sliding together and Castiel’s weight straddling his hips, holding him down in the absolute best way. His mind is quiet and his dick is responsive, Castiel _just_ getting a hand down his pants and around it when the sky opens up above them and dumps a few thousand more buckets what feels like directly onto their roof. 

The actual shower is short-lived, but the damage is done and Dean scrambles frantically out from under Cas, rushing to the window and noting with some anxiety that the storm surge rushing under their house is still apparently going strong. He groans and covers his face with his hands, erection effectively killed. 

“I believe that it’s time we bring out the big guns,” Castiel tells him, kissing his neck from where he’s wrapped himself around Dean’s back. 

“Is that a metaphor?” Dean grunts, knowing that if Cas is referring to his dick he’s shit out of luck ‘cause no way is Dean going to be able to get it up again right now.

“Come with me.” Castiel ignores his question and drags Dean to the kitchen. He sits him down, instructing him to stay while he grills up burgers and serves them with chips. “Eat,” he instructs, and while Dean doesn’t feel hungry, it’s been almost ten hours since breakfast and realistically, he knows that he should be. The burger is really excellent, well-seasoned and juicy, and Dean thanks Castiel before getting up to go back to staring worriedly out the window.

“Oh, we aren’t done,” Castiel says. He takes Dean’s hand and drags him up the stairs to the bedroom, ensuring that the blinds are still closed and the room is dark. He digs in his backpack and comes up with his bottle of anxiety medication, tipping one into his hand and holding it out for Dean. Not usually one for medication, Dean thinks about turning him down but in the end, decides that he’s done feeling like crap for the day. He swallows the pill with a handful of water from the bathroom and returns to Castiel, who’s turned down the sheets on the bed and is patting his spot invitingly. “Come,” he instructs, and Dean listens, pulling his shirt off before laying himself out on his stomach. 

Without a word, Castiel straddles his ass from behind and lays hands on his shoulders, working over the muscles from his neck all the way down his back while Dean moans and sighs and tries hard not to drift off to sleep. Distantly, he feels Cas’ body blanket his own and hears his voice say, “Let go, Dean, I’ll be here when you wake,” and that’s all the permission Dean needs. He sleeps. 

When he blinks awake next, the world is dark and still. _Perfectly_ still, not a gust of wind or faint patter of rain to be heard. Dean sits up, still groggy and fuzzy from the medication, and the alarm clock on his stand is dark so he has no idea what time it might be. Cas is at his side, though, passed out cold on his stomach with his arms tucked under his pillow, dark hair a gorgeous mess against the white sheets. Dean draws the covers over his exposed back and drops a kiss to the top of his head without even thinking about it before quietly exiting the room and making his way carefully down the stairs in the dark. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he reaches the sliding glass doors and sees the moon’s glow lighting up the space that’s _supposed_ to be between the house and the ocean. It’s not completely clear of water yet, and the part that is contains a mess of debris and sand covering the salt-tolerant brush, but the ocean’s retreated, almost halfway to where the cusp normally etches into the sand of the beach. 

_It’s over._

It occurs to him, as he climbs the stairs to go back to bed, that Castiel was right and that he should have simply trusted him to begin with. He feels a little guilty about wasting an entire night they could have spent together, leaving Castiel to his own devices while he went unconscious to avoid his own nerves. Contemplating that, Dean resolves to be better the next time he’s faced with a challenge or something he finds unnerving. Dean slips back inside the bed next to his friend unmissed, and doesn’t protest as Castiel stirs and sidles up to him, wrapping arms around his body to hold him close as he drifts back off to sleep.

***

The Prius didn’t fare nearly as well through the storm as he and Cas did. When Dean opens the driver’s side door the next morning, the footwells are still full of water and a rush of sand spills out onto the layer already covering the concrete pad the house is grounded to. Dean looks around helplessly, noting that the entire fucking _street_ looks like a goddamn beach. He leans in and tries the key just for kicks and giggles, but as he suspected, the engine does absolutely diddly squat. Not even a click or a hiss or a _fuck you,_ the whole damn car is now nothing more than an environmentally-friendly pile of useless plastic. 

_Fucking great._

He’s about to get angry, has a whole rant ready to grumble out when he notices Castiel’s face from across the roof of the car and remembers his promise to himself from the night before. Instead of exploding, Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Alright,” he says with a shrug, making the decision to treat this as a potential adventure, instead of a frustrating sticking point. “Guess she was never much of a road trip vehicle, anyway. What would you say to a little car shopping?” 

Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but before he can he’s cut off by the sound of a female voice calling out. “Yoohoo!” Dean turns to see a smiling-faced blonde woman making her way carefully down the driveway, struggling to keep her balance as she navigates the varying piles of sand left behind by the surge. “Howdy!” She calls out, one hand waving and the other carefully balancing a casserole dish on her arm. 

“Is that… a _Mid-Western_ accent?” Castiel asks quietly, from where he’s come around the car to stand at Dean’s side. 

“Uh, Minnesota?” Dean guesses, but before he can comment further the woman makes it into hearing range and Dean’s manners kick in, reaching out to grab her arm to steady her as she stumbles on a deceptively deep hill of sand. 

“Hi, Hiya! I’m Donna. Thanks for the assist,” she says brightly, motioning to where Dean’s still got a firm grip on her arm. He releases her quickly, stepping back with a smile. 

“Donna?” Castiel questions. “Donna Hanscum? As in, our host, the one who owns this place?”

“Darn tootin’,” she says with a grin. “The one and only. Really nice to meet you fellas in person, Castiel here kept me company last night over text message and I sure was grateful. It’s not so much fun to ride out a storm like that one all on your lonesome.” 

“It was a pleasure,” Castiel says with a wide smile, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Anywho,” Donna continues, oblivious, “I live a few streets over and my power is already back on. Thought I’d bring you both this casserole as a thanks for sticking it out. Don’t get too many renters this time of year, and ever since my husband Doug left me, I really need the income.” Her smile falters a little as she takes in Dean’s surprised face. “Oh, dear,” she says quickly. “I always share too much. Doug always hated that.” 

“Nonsense,” Castiel steps in, taking her hand in one of his and her casserole in the other. “Won’t you come eat with us? Dean and I were just discussing breakfast.”

“We were?” Dean grumbles quietly, but Castiel hears and shoots him a look. 

“Oh, my,” Donna remarks as she passes by their car. “That’s a doozy. Oh, this is my fault. All of the locals know to move their cars to the inner streets, but how could you have known? I didn’t tell you.” She covers her mouth and looks so horrified that Dean suppresses the eye roll he wants to let loose and pats her on the shoulder.

“It’s fine, Donna,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t cause the hurricane and you didn’t make us stay. Besides, I never liked that car. Been lookin’ for a reason to trade her in.” 

Castiel beams at Dean before tugging Donna forward and up the stairs, but Dean notices that her eyes linger on the Prius. “Well, if yous two say so,” she says reluctantly. “But you have to let me call you a tow. I have a friend, Doug, he’ll take her anywhere you want to go.”

“Your ex-husband Doug?” Dean questions.

“Oh, no… a—another Doug. Although, we…” She trails off and shrugs, and Dean guesses she’s flashing back to that oversharing thing. “Suppose I have a type, is all,” she finishes, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. 

Dean does a quick internet search on his phone as they ascend the stairs, showing Donna the screen when they reach the top. “Think your friend would haul us down to this car dealership?” 

Squinting at the screen in the bright sun, Donna draws back and grins. “Oh yea,” she says. “You betcha.” 

***

One hour, two servings of Donna’s breakfast casserole, and one phone call to New Doug later, Dean and Cas are wedged tightly into the front seat of a rusty tow truck that is nowhere _near_ big enough for three grown men to fit comfortably. They wave goodbye to Donna as Doug pulls away, dragging the now-defunct Prius behind them over the sand. 

“Keep in touch, will ya?” Donna calls out and Castiel nods an affirmative back at her, waving like a maniac as they pull away. 

“I liked her,” he says to Dean, and Dean scoffs, causing Cas to do a double-take. “Wait a minute,” he says searchingly. “Are you _jealous?”_ Dean pouts and ignores him, and Castiel laughs so loud Doug looks over at him to see if he’s alright. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “That is both ridiculous and adorable.” 

Dean finally unleashes that eye roll he’s been holding back, but when Castiel reaches for his hand again, he doesn’t turn him away. The smug bastard is still smirking when Doug pulls into the Chevy dealership and they unload, but Dean refuses to dignify his amusement with anything even approaching validation. 

And anyway, he’s on a mission. He can’t let himself be distracted. He leaves the Prius with a salesman to be appraised and heads directly towards one of the cars he’d seen advertised in the dealer’s used inventory on their website. He’d scrolled through their offerings as he’d shoved egg and sausage casserole in his mouth, leaving Donna and Cas to chat and flirt or whatever it was they were doing, and as soon as he laid eyes on it, he just _knew_.

Dean spots the car he’s looking for easily since a vehicle like that isn’t exactly built to blend in. It's sporting a shiny black paint job that looks brand new, unblemished chrome finishes, a wide, sleek body, and more horsepower than he could ever figure out what to do with. It’s a ‘67 Chevy Impala, completely restored from the looks of it, and despite how atrocious this thing has to be on the environment, she’s _everything_ Dean never knew he wanted in a vehicle all rolled into one. 

Dean thinks he might be in love.

“Really?” Castiel remarks, appearing out of nowhere and circling the car. Dean watches as he lets his fingers drag seductively over her curves. “This one?”

“Something wrong with her?” His reply is a _little_ too defensive and Dean knows it, but something about this car is provoking something foreign in _him_ , and he feels weirdly protective of her.

Castiel just grins, all laugh lines and straight, white teeth. “Not at all,” he replies with a shake of his head. “Judging solely on the backseat alone and its potential, this is exactly the car I’d choose for us.” 

_For us._ Castiel’s words echo wildly in Dean’s ears, and if he wasn’t sold before, imagining Castiel laid out in the backseat while they park on some deserted back country road is more than enough to seal the deal. 

“Alright,” he says a bit thickly, swallowing against his suddenly dry throat.

“May I ask you something?” Castiel cocks his head to the side as he comes back around the car. “Have you ever even _considered_ making a snap decision like this before? Just thrown caution to the wind and followed your gut instinct?” His hands smooth down Dean’s waist and settle on his hips, not helping Dean’s thought process along in the least, but he gets the gist and shakes his head, _no._ “I didn’t think so,” Castiel continues, a small smile playing at his lips. He pats Dean’s side before wandering away. “I think you’re getting the hang of this adventure thing,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Dean’s not entirely clear on what just happened, but he knows one thing for sure. He’s getting that fucking car.

As it turns out, the car was restored as a custom order, the man who bought it reneging on his payment contract only after all the work was completed. The dealership is only all too happy to unload it on Dean, who’s willing to pay cash, reporting that the inner workings of the car are all in perfect condition, but there’s no real market for a classic like that, not locally anyway. 

So after the offset from the Prius and a swipe of Dean’s black card, Cas and Dean find themselves on the road again, headed back to the house to grab their things and head off to find their next adventure. Dean’s never been more sure that he’s made the right decision than when the Impala’s engine revs at the first stoplight, vibrating happily beneath them as he waits to floor it. Castiel smiles as widely as Dean’s ever seen him, unbuckling his belt to slide across the bench seat and press up against Dean. 

“Look what I can do,” he whispers in Dean’s ear, sliding a palm down and over his thigh and squeezing lightly. 

“Oh, hell yea,” Dean can’t help but say as the light turns from red to green and they take off towards the house and the water. “ _Hell. Yea._ Where to next?”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dean & Cas' rental house](https://www.outerbeaches.com/property/annies-dunes-443?PageDataID=142142&AD=11/9/2019&DD=11/16/2019), if you're interested. 
> 
> Also the[Chevy Dealership](https://www.obxchevy.com) is real. ;)


	4. Home is Something Physical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a little slower updating, I've been in a bit of a post-SDCC slump. Clearly, the cure for that is smut. So, warning: E-rating ahead!

_Atlanta, GA_

In the end, by the time they get back to the house, Dean’s exhausted from all the chaos of the hurricane and car shopping. Plus, despite his excitement about getting to know the Impala, he’s somewhat ambivalent at the idea of getting back out on the endless road. On the other hand, there’s not much to do in Waves right now with most of the local businesses recovering from the hurricane and the ocean looking less than appealing, considering. Since they did pay for an entire week, he and Cas decide to split the difference and stay one more night. Castiel gives Donna a call and invites her over for dinner to return the favor for breakfast, and Dean finds her sunny, perpetually upbeat demeanor growing on him steadily. Grudgingly he admits that he can see why Cas likes her so much.

She oohs and ahhs over Baby (the name Dean had christened the Impala with almost immediately after pulling off the lot) and the three of them pass the evening with more card games and buffalo wings Donna shows them how to flame-broil on the grill. Dean’s in food heaven, and he makes her write down the recipe for her homemade sauce before she leaves. He needs a grill. 

Well, first he needs a new home, and probably a job, but then a grill is definitely next. As Cas and Donna chatter on about New Doug and their road trip and whatever else, Dean rocks back in his deck chair, looking out over the ocean (that’s back in its rightful place) as he fingers the neck of his beer and lets his thoughts drift. He wonders what’ll become of him and Cas when this series of adventures finally comes to an end, and finds himself worrying Cas won’t want to stick around, or that they won’t be able to make something work once they’re stuck in one place, in _real life,_ as it were. He should talk to Castiel about it, but he’s never been great with feelings and instead, he shoves his worries down and tucks them away where they can’t ruin his current good mood. 

When Donna finally takes off later that night, it’s with hugs all around and promises to text and come back and visit again someday. Exhausted and planning to get up early, once again, Dean and Cas fall into bed tangled up in each other but without enough energy to take things further than that. As his mind shuts down and prepares for sleep, Dean halfheartedly wonders if he and Cas will ever get around to sleeping together, and finds that he doesn’t feel as if there’s any rush. 

***

It’s less of a surprise but still a disappointment when Dean wakes up the next morning and Cas isn’t beside him in bed. He finds him outside, packing up the new car, and presses him against it to claim his good morning kiss. Cas looks good beside his Baby, dressed for the day in jeans and a billowy linen shirt Dean had tried to talk him out of buying and failed, his face unshaven and hair still rumpled from sleep. His feet are bare and Dean wonders if it’s because of all the sand, or if Cas is just being Cas. 

They’d talked the night before about their next destination, and after Dean brought up the fact that it’ll be Thanksgiving in three days, Donna had actually been the one to weight in with the winning suggestion. As she’s explaining, a lightbulb goes off in Dean’s head, and he steps away to make a phone call to an old friend. The pieces for their next stop fall into place perfectly after that, but unfortunately, it’s still the better part of a full day’s drive away and Dean’s not overly keen on attempting the whole thing in one shot. He suggests to Cas that they stop halfway in Atlanta, do some tourist shit, crash, and then keep going the next day and Cas is all for it. They do a last sweep of the house to make sure they’re not missing anything and then spend fifteen or so minutes making out with Dean sitting on the Jacuzzi lid and Castiel between his legs. 

“We should get moving,” Castiel says regretfully when he eventually pulls away, hair in even worse shape now than when he rolled out of bed, thanks to Dean’s fingers. 

“We don’t _have_ to,” Dean argues, snagging him by the belt loops and tugging him back in. He kisses along the line of Castiel’s jaw and smiles when he feels hands drop to his hips. 

“Yes we do,” Castiel insists, slipping away and taking Dean’s hopeful smile with him as he goes. “Donna said she’s coming by this morning to turn the house over, I can’t imagine she wishes to walk in on me bending you over her sofa.” 

“Yea, you’re probably— _hey_ ,” Dean calls out defensively, following Castiel down the wooden stairs and noting that the man still has his shoes in his hand instead of on his feet. “That’s a pretty bold assumption there, bucko. Who says you’re bending me over?” 

Castiel pauses on the bottom step and looks over his shoulder up at Dean. “My mistake,” he says carefully, running his eyes over Dean’s body from head to ( _properly clothed)_ toe. “You’re welcome to do the bending, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed, I apologize.” He doesn’t wait for Dean to reply, just turns around and continues over to the car where he hops into the driver’s side and waits for Dean to join him. 

Dean, meanwhile, feels his face burning for reasons he’s not entirely sure he understands as he suddenly realizes that he very _much_ would like to go back upstairs and be bent over that couch. _Holy shit._ Dean’s been with his fair share of both men and women, but he’s always considered himself a top, and an obvious one at that, never even contemplating the flip side of that equation. But standing there on Donna’s weathered wooden steps, hundreds of miles from home and breathing in fresh, salt air that he’s starting to think might actually be some kind of truth drug, every single image that fills his mind is a variation on all the ways Cas could top the fuck out of him. 

_Holy shit._

He stands there for long enough that Castiel gets back out of the car again to ask if he’s okay. “Uh, yea,” he replies quickly, clearing his throat and hopping down the last few stairs. “Just trying to remember if I grabbed my phone charger.” He moves to get inside the car while Castiel opens the rear door and fusses with something in the back seat. When he slides back in, he looks pleased.

“Your plant is improving,” he announces.

“Oh, yea?” Dean turns his head to look and finds the little pot relocated to its new home on the back ledge of the Impala, and sure enough, it’s looking a little less droopy, a little more green. “You’re magic,” he says to Cas in surprise. “I would’ve lost a lot of money betting that thing was dead.” 

Castiel just shrugs and gives him a searching look ( _so what else is new?_ ). “Even things that appear ruined can often be saved with a little nurturing,” he says. “Sometimes what they act like they want and what they truly need are very different, indeed.” And yea, okay, message received. 

“Did the plant tell you all that?” Dean grumps, because he’s an asshole, and he’s not going to discuss their potential sex life in gardening metaphors. He puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway, giving their shelter from the storm a last fond look before setting off down the (still sand-covered) road. 

Castiel’s contemplative silence lasts for a whole twenty minutes of peaceful driving, Dean relishing the throaty rev of Baby’s engine as he really opens her up on the freeway, before he tries again. 

“Is it that you’ve never bottomed before, or does it have to do with me?” 

Choking on his own tongue, Dean decides Castiel is fucking lucky he didn’t run the damn car off the road. He licks his lips. “Jesus, man,” he says with a glare as he adjusts his hands on the steering wheel. “You can’t just say stuff like that.” 

“Why not?” Castiel’s brow is furrowed and he looks genuinely confused, which leads Dean to the impossible realization that he’s not playing coy, he’s actually _asking._

“Because,” he hedges. “You just can’t.” 

“Alright,” Castiel replies, settling back in his seat and returning his gaze out the window, confused expression still firmly set in place. 

A few tense (at least from Dean’s perspective) moments pass before he finally sighs and relents. “It, uh…” He scratches his neck. “I guess it never crossed my mind to consider it,” he says, and then forces himself to spill the rest of that half-truth. “It wasn’t something I thought I wanted.” 

“Oh,” Castiel replies. “Alright.” 

That’s it. That’s all he says. Dean’s left blinking and annoyed, darting glances between Cas and the roadway and waiting for him to actually contribute to this fucking conversation that _he_ started and really, Dean is just being polite fucking company by joining in. “ _Oh,”_ he repeats in disbelief. “ _Oh?_ That’s all you’re going to say, _oh?”_

Castiel’s head snaps to face him and he looks bewildered. _Damn him and how goddamn sincere he always fucking is,_ Dean thinks. If this had been anyone besides Cas, Dean would be _one hundred percent sure_ they were fucking with him. But Castiel just reaches out to lay a hand over his and tilts his head to the side like he truly doesn’t understand. He’s so fucking cute Dean’s ready to pull the car over and end this whole ridiculous conversation now by just bending himself over the hood and letting whatever happens happen, maybe Cas will be capable of reading in between those lines better than he’s doing now. 

“I would never ask you to do something you made clear you have no interest in,” Castiel tells him, doing his best to maintain eye contact while Dean drives. “And besides, I enjoy getting fucked, it won’t be a problem if you only wish to top.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes out, pulling his hand away from Cas’ and wiping it across his face. _Cas is really not going to make this easy, is he?_ “I didn’t say that,” Dean finally mumbles. “I _said_ I hadn’t thought about it _before_.” The emphasis he puts on the last word is a little dramatic for his taste, but he figures even Cas can’t miss a clue like that.

“Oh,” Castiel replies again, and then, “ _Oh._ So you..?”

“Maybe,” Dean says defensively, keeping his eyes glued to the road.

“Hmm,” Castiel says, settling back against his seat once more, just as he had before, except this time when Dean looks over, he’s smirking and there’s a definite glimmer in his eye that he _knows_ wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Dick,” Dean mutters under his breath, and Castiel’s smirk turns into a full-fledged grin. It’s quiet again for a few minutes and Dean’s _just_ reaching to turn up the radio when Castiel speaks again.

“So, just to be clear, when you imagine us having sex, you _do_ fantasize about being on the bottom?” 

Fairly certain that if his face gets any hotter it’ll burst into actual flames, Dean resumes his reach for the radio and turns it _way_ up. Not quite loud enough to drown out the sound when Castiel throws his head back and laughs, but enough for a little plausible deniability. Still grinning like he won some kind of contest, Cas leans over to kiss Dean’s cheek, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that the embarrassment is kind of worth it, just for that.

***

Nine hours is the longest amount of time he and Cas have spent in the car together without stopping at a hotel to recharge. They do break a few times for food and to use the bathroom, but both of them agree to keep those pauses in their journey short and to the point. With their increased travel time Dean supposes it should be the opposite, and it’s not as if they have a schedule to keep to, but there’s something a lot more powerful than anything so frivolous as _time_ driving them forward now.

Once Castiel’s amusement at Dean’s inability to discuss openly his not-so-secret desire to get railed by Cas wears off, a switch seems to flip in him. Castiel goes from flirty and silly to weirdly intense, and ever since, he’s been working on ratcheting up the sexual tension in the car like it’s his job. He starts off small, just running his thumb over Dean’s palm, tracing the lines that criss-cross his skin absently as he watches the scenery fly by outside his window. Dean _almost_ doesn’t notice when he graduates to caressing his inner wrist and then his forearm, but it’s pretty damn hard to ignore when Cas casually sheds his seatbelt in favor of scooting over to the middle of the bench seat for better access. 

Up until this point, Dean’s been enjoying the attention, but it hasn’t been overly distracting. Castiel’s presence is comforting and what he’s doing feels good, it makes his body tingle and his heart beat a little faster, but Dean’s still fully in control. All of that changes when Castiel starts edging closer, letting his hands run over more and more of Dean’s body, still doing his best to appear innocent and like he’s just entertaining himself during the ride. Cas’ fingers press and glide over Dean’s shoulders, his torso, and eventually, his thighs. And all the while, Castiel talks. He talks about _everything,_ more than Dean’s probably heard him say in the entire time he’s known the guy, and it confuses his dick something fierce. He finds himself torn between relaxing and enjoying Castiel’s hands running over his skin and focusing on his words, because truthfully, he wants to know everything about Cas, wants to swallow and tuck away in his brain any little piece of himself that he’s willing to share. 

They go on like that for hours, Castiel spilling endlessly all sorts of random details from his life, and Dean struggling to pay attention and respond in kind. Each time they get out at a rest stop, it’s harder for Dean to adjust his pants and walk around as if he wasn’t just halfway to Happy Town from a little casual touching behind the wheel of his own damn car. Back on the road again, Castiel talks about his old job at Sandover, his father (who has more pseudonyms than just PT Sandover, apparently), his mother dying young (Dean can’t imagine), and all sorts of far more mundane things, like his favorite flavor of ice cream (cookie dough, Dean’s is vanilla, but mostly because he only really likes ice cream with pie), stories from back when he was in school, and then he circles back to talking about bees again. All the while, his hands never stop moving, and he keeps getting closer. 

By the time they’re an hour or so out from Atlanta, Cas has abandoned all pretenses that this was ever about conversation, though Dean has to admit, he did learn a few things he never would have guessed about the guy. Not that he can remember any of them just now, since every brain cell he possesses is currently holding on for dear life in an attempt to keep him focused on the road. Castiel’s draped over his right shoulder, hand shamelessly brushing just a _little_ too far up his thigh to be anything less than completely intentional, and his face is buried in Dean’s neck, kissing and sucking hickeys into whatever skin he can reach. 

At one point, Dean moans that he’s had enough and moves to pull the car off to the side of the road, ready to whip his dick out in the middle of the highway if that’s what it takes, but Castiel just surfaces and smiles, shaking his head at Dean calmly. “We didn’t come all this way just to quit with the finish line in sight,” he says, and Dean doesn’t remember signing up to play this particular game of torture-chicken. He’s rock hard in his pants and his focus is really starting to go, but Atlanta’s skyline is getting closer by the minute, the signs directing him into the city proper brightly lit and easy to follow in the growing dusk of early evening. 

“ _Fine.”_ He breathes out, immediately sucking in another deep rush of air to try and steady himself. Of course, as soon as he regains the tiniest semblance of sanity, Castiel’s back on him again, and this time when he presses against Dean’s side it’s obvious that he’s not much better off, though you couldn’t fucking tell from his demeanor. Dean takes the first turn-off into the city and tries to figure out what their next move should be. They don’t have reservations anywhere, Castiel was supposed to be sorting that out, but it seems he has other priorities. 

The outskirts of the city aren’t so nice, but they boast several cheap-looking motels advertising things like, “FREE HBO” and “POO” (“POOL” before one of the letters burned out, how much classier could this get?) and Dean’s _desperate._ Nine hours in a car is one thing, nine hours with a man he’s been dying to fuck but hasn’t yet who’s intent on giving new meaning to the word _cocktease_ is something wholly else. 

“It’s only teasing if I don’t intend to follow through,” Castiel tells him, because apparently, Dean’s addled brain let him say all that out loud. “I don’t mind a cheap motel,” he adds, his lips grazing Dean’s hairline at the back of his neck and _sold, Castiel J. Novak, come on down!_ Dean whips the Impala into the parking lot of next motel with a vacancy sign that he sees and quickly realizes it’s got a hell of a wider turning radius than the fucking Prius. He has to overcorrect and nearly ends up in a flower bed but fuck it, they’re here. 

“Uh,” he says intelligently, looking down at the _very_ obvious bulge in the fabric under Castiel’s hand and wills it to go down, at least enough to tuck away for the five awkward minutes it’ll take to rent a room. “Yea, no, that’s not going to happen,” he concludes quickly, pulling his wallet out from his pocket and forking over his card to Castiel, who’s grinning like a maniac. “You did this, you go get the room.” 

“With pleasure,” Castiel replies easily, sliding out of the car and wandering towards the rental office, making sure Dean gets a good look at him doing _absolutely nothing_ to hide his own boner as he does, and _Jesus Christ,_ Dean’s sweating. Cas reappears minutes later with a comically large keychain in one hand and a glossy pamphlet in the other, sliding back into the car like he’s not currently the _most_ obnoxiously frustrating man on the planet. “Room six,” he says calmly, as Dean’s body tries not to spontaneously burst into flames.

He licks his lips as he notices that Cas’ pants are still very much tented up and throws Baby into reverse. She growls accusingly as he floors it just a _little_ too hard, silently apologizing to her for the rough treatment because he really does love this fucking car. Should have just pulled off the highway and fucked Cas in the back seat hours ago, best of both worlds. Twenty/twenty hindsight, and all that. 

Prepared to just leave the bags behind and get them at a less pants-constricting time somewhere in the (let’s face it, probably not-so-distant) future, Dean can’t help but let out a couple of incredibly pathetic noises when Castiel exits the car in that serene way of his, making his way to the trunk and waiting patiently with an eyebrow raised for Dean to come and unlock it.

“Seriously?” He grumbles, but sensing this sticking point will be over much faster if he just gives Cas what he wants, he complies. “You’re a dick,” Dean tells him outright as he pulls his own bag out and slings it over his shoulder.

“Am I?” Castiel replies mildly as he closes the trunk. “Hmm. I was under the impression that you liked my dick.” Dean rolls his eyes and turns his back on Cas to open the motel room door, resolutely _not_ wondering if Cas is looking at his ass. That switch that flipped in his friend during the car ride flips once again the moment Dean steps inside the room. He has all of thirty seconds to take in their surroundings (shabby, but definitely could be worse; a king-sized bed with a faded floral comforter, similarly faded creeping vine wallpaper, and a ‘70s-style kitchenette that looks like it came here in a Delorean) before he’s tackled from behind. 

Before Dean can even process what’s happening, he’s facedown on the bed, knees a few inches off the floor, and Castiel’s body is draped heavily over his back. Cas wraps an arm around his middle and bites possessively at the back of his neck while simultaneously pushing his crotch against Dean’s ass and _hello, yes, more of that please,_ Dean thinks, somewhat deliriously. His body moves reflexively against Cas’, arching up and back into him, the long hours of teasing and foreplay causing him to perhaps consider a little less carefully what he’s so blatantly asking for than he otherwise might have. 

And suddenly, the thought occurs to him that this must have been the point. Castiel’s been touching and kissing and generally riling him up for _hours_ so that by the time they _got here_ , he’d be so out of his mind with need that asking for what he (very much) wants would be no source of difficulty. Dean finds himself immensely grateful, and more than that, _ready._ His cock is hard in his dress pants, the indirect friction he’s getting from being rubbed against the mattress not nearly enough to satisfy. “Cas,” he murmurs, turning his head to the side so that his words aren’t muffled in the bedding.

“Mmhmm.” Castiel hums into his neck, and then just as quickly as he’d been shoved down, Castiel’s arms are threading under his arms and across his pecs to pull him back to standing from behind. Being tossed around like that is _hot_ and Dean stumbles a little, steadied by Cas’ hand on his waist as he reaches around Dean to toss the comforter aside with a mumbled explanation about the things that people do on them. He’s hardly even straightened up before he’s pushing Dean back down, on his back and onto clean white sheets this time. 

“Hot damn,” Dean says, taking in the apparent lust-drunk look on Cas’ face, the half-glazed set of his eyes as they roam over his own still-clothed body. “Not to be an ass, but I was kind of starting to worry you weren’t as into this I am.” He hesitates. “I mean, you are… as into this as I am, right?”

With a low growl, Castiel leans forward onto the bed, crawling up and over Dean’s body, dipping down to nip at his bottom lip before insisting his mouth open and kissing him deeply. The little sigh he lets out when their lips part might be sexier than any of the touching and kissing they’ve done so far, and Dean wants _more._ “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he replies lowly, skimming his lips over Dean’s cheek to scrape at the shell of his ear with his teeth. Dean clutches at his side and can’t help the hitching breaths that escape from his throat as Castiel bites down. His hand flies up to thread into the hair at the back of Castiel’s head, and in response, Cas adjusts his hips, lowering them so that he’s between Dean’s legs and grinding their bodies together.

Dean approves. _Holly hell, does he ever._

Pulling back to look Dean in the eyes again, Castiel moans when their clothed dicks slide together at a particularly satisfying angle, his pretty mouth dropping open in a way that Dean would really, _really_ like to get on camera and save forever, maybe submit a copy to the Museum of Modern Art because Castiel’s parted, spit-shiny pink lips are nothing short of a masterpiece. Something about that line of _incredibly_ cheesy thinking pricks Dean’s subconscious, an irritating finger to the ribs that he knows he should probably pay more attention to, but his brain is already working overdrive on a blood deficit since most of it is rushing south of the border, and his focus is impossibly hard to drag away from Cas’ cock and how to get it inside of him as soon as humanly possible.

“I am _very_ affected by you, Dean,” Castiel tells him as he smoothes a hand across his cheek, and Dean can’t help closing his eyes and relishing the feeling. But then Cas’ mouth is back on his, tongue sliding in against his own, and pretty soon they’re both pulling at clothing, ripping at buttons and zippers and wriggling against each other until every stitch of it is gone. Castiel stays on top of him then, seemingly reluctant to relinquish his position, his _control_ of Dean’s body and how much he can move, but Dean’s hardly complaining. Cas fits between his legs perfectly, his skin is smooth and hot and he can’t stop running his hands over it, squeezing muscles as he comes across them and relishing being pressed together with nothing between them for the first time. 

Castiel drops his mouth to Dean’s neck, kissing and sucking a trail down to his collarbone while Dean just works at controlling himself, tries not to clamp his thighs around Cas’ hips and just rut shamelessly against him, but it’s a fucking struggle. Cas’ dick is thick and silky where it slides temptingly against Dean’s own, and he manages to work a hand between them to grasp them both together. Castiel groans into his chest and tightens his grip on the asscheek he’s grabbing, thrusting a little harder into Dean’s hand. “Dean,” he says, voice so much lower than usual, dark and smooth like good whiskey. “Are you going to tell me— _unh,”_ he cuts himself off, and Dean can feel him swallow bracingly against his chest. After a moment, he continues, “...what you want?” 

“Yea,” Dean breathes, answering without any hesitation. He palms a hand down over Cas’ flexing back and settles on his ass, stretching his own fingers as he kneads the muscle there. “Want you,” he says. “Want you to fuck me.” Castiel groans again and surfaces from where he’s been kissing his way across Dean’s chest, pushing himself up and kneeling down on the ground next to the bed. From the noises he’s making, it sounds as if he’s rustling in his bag and Dean does his best not to make a series of the most put-out noises ever heard at that presumed rejection and the sudden chill creeping across his skin where Cas’ body should be. 

But Castiel pops back up again quickly, waving a condom and a bottle of lube in Dean’s direction as he clamors back onto the bed, dropping down in a heap onto his side next to him. 

“When the hell did you get those?” Dean wonders and Castiel grins. 

“Slipped them into our hurricane supply run,” he answers, clearly pleased with himself. 

“Oh? Were you planning on seducing me, Mr. Novak?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies very seriously, eyes darkening once again, and vaguely, Dean makes a mental note to return to that whole _Mr. Novak_ thing later, because something about it definitely pushed Castiel’s buttons, in the _best_ sort of way. But right now, he’s more focused on the result, which is that Castiel’s kissing him with interest as his hand tugs at Dean’s hip to bring him up on his side and press them together once again. Cas’ thigh slides up over his own and Dean feels so deliciously trapped as Cas winds an arm under his and across his back and pulls him close. “Are you sure?” He whispers against Dean’s lips and Dean nods.

“Oh, hell yes, Cas,” he replies enthusiastically.

“I’d love for you to top just as much,” he continues, and Dean takes matters into his own hands, grabbing for the discarded lube and pressing it into Castiel’s hand.

“ _Next_ time,” he says pointedly, and Castiel’s smile and breath are warm on his cheek. 

Cas doesn’t change their position in any way except to drop his leg from where it’s draped over Dean’s hip to slide it in between his legs. He keeps their bodies pressed together from shoulder to groin and reaches down behind Dean’s back to slip cool, slick fingers in between Dean’s cheeks before pushing them inside. Dean relaxes as much as he can, pants into Cas’ shoulder and hugs him tight. Castiel’s gentle and careful but not so much that it becomes frustrating, and pretty soon he’s nudging at Dean to roll over. “It’ll be easier like this,” he murmurs just below his ear, and Dean nods, anxious and aching, aroused but still aware enough to be nervous as hell. “I could put you on all fours, but I’d like to hold you, any objection to that?” 

“No,” Dean whispers, not his smoothest dirty talk but for whatever reason, with Cas, he doesn’t feel the need to posture. He hears the foil tear and the snap of the latex as it unrolls, the squelch of the lube bottle as Castiel squeezes some more out. All the while, Cas keeps as much of their skin touching as possible, continues kissing Dean’s neck and shoulder, noses in his hair, and once again Dean’s struck by that feeling of _holy shit, this is not just sex, this is something more._

He shoves the thought away and strokes himself idly, his hand quickly replaced by Cas big, warm one and it’s easy to relax back into his chest and enjoy being touched. Cas only takes his hand away to line himself up, propping Dean’s leg up for easier access and pressing forward slowly. Dean fights the urge to tense up, and it’s easier when Cas’ hand returns to his cock, stroking him firmly as he slides inside, stretching and filling Dean up in a way that makes his breath come short and his hands grope for something to hold onto. Castiel releases him again to take his hand and move it to his own ass, and even as he’s adjusting, Dean has to admit, this position is fucking intimate, they’re _so_ damn close. 

By the time Castiel bottoms out, he’s stroking Dean to a solid rhythm and Dean’s more than ready for him to move. The first couple of thrusts still feel a bit odd, but it doesn’t hurt and he quickly starts to enjoy it, to crave more of it, especially when he throws his leg back over Cas’ and changes the angle _just_ enough to hit that sweet spot inside of him. Dean knows on some level that he’s making sounds, that he’s being needy and grabby with his hands and his mouth, twisting his neck back to get at Cas’ despite the crappy angle, but he doesn’t care. There’s something about being owned by Cas like this, being fucked and manhandled and _taken care of_ that’s overwhelmingly _good_ in a way he can’t even being to put words to.

So he doesn’t try, he just rides the waves. Cas thrusts hard and even, stroking Dean at the same rhythm and kissing him quiet when he calls out until he tenses up and comes all over Cas’ hand and his own stomach. And then Cas pulls him up, slides an arm underneath the side of him that’s on the bed, plants his feet and fucks Dean hard and fast until Dean can feel him, his arms, his legs, his abdomen against his back, all of his muscles tensing all at once. It’s _intoxicating,_ being surrounded by him like that, and Dean throws an arm back to hold Cas’ head tight against his own. Castiel moans in his ear as he comes and Dean’s eyes go a little crossed from the sensation of his prostate getting nailed repeatedly after he’s already come, his own dick twitching and leaking impossibly just a little more. He and Cas both collapse in a heap, gasping and groaning and separating with a noise Dean would rather not dwell on too much.

He rolls back over to find Castiel staring at him in awe and leans forward to touch their lips together, light and sweet. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says softly. “That was…”

“Fucking awesome,” Dean finishes with a nod. He tries to stifle the yawn that creeps up on him, but it makes an appearance regardless. “But since I’m never going to be able to walk again, you’re cleaning us up.” He forces himself to shove his way to the top of the bed, flopping back against the pillows with a content sigh. Castiel just laughs and rolls out of bed, returning a few minutes later with a wet washcloth and absent of the used condom, thankfully. He cleans Dean up attentively and Dean lets him, watching through heavy, lidded eyes as Castiel swipes the cloth gently over his skin. He cleans himself second and then tosses the rag to the floor, clicking off the lamp and sliding in next to Dean. 

Finding it second nature to fit himself around the curve of Castiel’s side and to rest his head on his chest, Dean chooses not to question why that is and just allows himself to have it. For how good the sex was, ( _and it was),_ he secretly thinks he might prefer this part even more. Castiel strokes affectionate fingers across his back and hums quietly as they rest together. 

“Cas?” Dean says, far too sleepy to even acknowledge the random question that’s playing around in his mind, never mind strike up a discussion about it. But Cas brings out the reckless in him, so to hell with it. “D’ya ever think about trying to take down Zachariah, you know, for what he did to you?” 

Castiel’s fingers never pause in the pictures they’re painting across Dean’s skin. “Every single day,” he replies carefully, but without hesitation. 

“We should do something about that,” Dean yawns, his eyes drifting closed against his will. “S’not fair.” 

“Indeed,” Castiel replies, and then Dean’s out.

***

The next morning, after a _very_ pleasant and far too time-consuming shared shower in which handjobs are enthusiastically exchanged, Dean scrounges them up coffee and pastries. They exchange reminiscent smiles over the baked goods that first brought them together in the front seat of Baby (and Dean definitely does _not_ get overly uppity about the crumbs but for _fuck’s sake, Cas, use a damn napkin)._ Dean’s about to pull back onto the road that will take them back to the highway when Castiel catches sight of something that looks like a Ferris Wheel that ate too much Spinach, and he says so. 

“I read about that,” Castiel says wistfully, pulling the glossy pamphlet he’d taken yesterday from the rental office out of his jeans’ pocket. “It’s called the SkyView.” 

“Looks like a great way to fall to your death,” Dean remarks and Castiel shoots him a look.

“The seats are enclosed, Dean. You can’t fall out.” But he doesn’t push, just goes back to staring out the window with a longing expression on his face, the pamphlet worrying between his fingers. Dean sighs and switches his directional from right to left before making the turn to drive towards the city center. He swallows the urge to mention that those little riding compartments look as if they’re teetering from a pretty small joint, and _just how much weight can one of those things support, anyway?_

But Castiel’s face when they’re waiting in line and the way it brightens even further when they step inside their little swinging death coffin is worth every ounce of Dean’s well-suppressed anxiety, and he squeezes Cas’ hand affectionately. He’s not _really_ afraid of heights, it’s planes he’s not a fan of, but the whole vibe of being in a metal tube hoisted high above the ground is just a _little_ too close for comfort. He sits down on the narrow bench inside their private gondola and observes the warning symbols that instruct him not to lean on the doors or kick the window, wondering what the hell went down in one of these things to make those signs necessary? 

Castiel must sense his discomfort because he goes all-in to distract him, straddling his legs with a knee on each side of the bench as the compartment lurches forward and starts to ascend. And if Dean is being honest, as Cas’ mouth covers his own, his technique is nothing if not effective. By the time they reach the top, he’s dizzy for a whole different reason, and can’t even remember what he was protesting about in the first place. At Cas’ encouragement, he turns to look out and has to admit, it’s a pretty damn cool view, probably only topped by seeing it at sunset. 

Below them, Centennial Olympic Park sprawls, the interlocked-ring fountains spraying enthusiastically though it’s too cool for kids to splash and run through. Maybe Atlanta’s not the _greatest_ for scenery, but like most cities, it looks a lot more polished from above. At the _very_ peak of the ride, they can see the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, and the top is open, which is pretty cool. Against his better judgment, Dean actually finds himself enjoying the ride, wrapping arms around Castiel from behind to rest his chin on his shoulder as they come back down. “Thank you,” he says into his neck, just before the doors open and Castiel pulls him by the hand out onto the platform. It’s a little windy today, and the breeze ruffles Cas’ hair _just so,_ making Dean’s heart stutter in his chest to look at him as he does that little confused head-tilt thing back.

“For what?” 

“Just… you know. For pushing me,” Dean says with a shrug. “You always seem to know exactly how much I can take.” Castiel’s smile spreads wide as he leans up to kiss Dean on the mouth, the ride operators fussing and doing their best to usher them off the platform going completely unnoticed around them. Dean fleetingly finds himself wishing that it'll always be this way.


	5. Home is Somewhere Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief PTSD related to Cas' homelessness, mention of assault, some hurt/comfort.
> 
> Apologies this update took a bit longer than usual. I was doing Gish and then I wasn't, my son went to the hospital... it's been a rough week. Hopefully, I can make penance in the form of some appearances by the gang and some vague hints of what's to come in this chapter, hope y'all enjoy. ;)

The better part of seven hours out from Atlanta, the New Orleans skyline looms in front of them. Dean shoots off a text message to the friend he’d called a few days prior and gets an address in return, plus a handful of emojis Dean doesn’t quite have the attention span to decipher while driving. Castiel’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the last part of this ride, and Dean can tell without trying that something’s bothering him. He reaches across the seat to poke his traveling companion in the ribs, resulting in Castiel squirming away.

“Don’t be a pest, Dean,” he says irritably. 

“Touchy,” Dean replies, but he puts his hands back on the wheel.

Sighing and shaking his head, Castiel pulls his attention away from the window and refocuses on Dean. “I apologize,” he says. “I’ve just been… inside my own head,” he explains. 

“Cluttered in there?” 

“Sometimes,” Castiel replies vaguely. “But enough about that. Tell me about this friend, is he… an ex?” Cas’ weak attempt at a casual subject change is cute, but Dean can see right through him. There’s no way in hell he’s not _both_ avoiding discussing whatever is bugging him _and_ trying to decide whether or not he’s got something to worry about in this character from Dean’s past. 

And Dean _could_ tease him, but the idea that Castiel might actually have real feelings for him, might actually be capable of jealousy where Dean and other people are concerned, the feelings that bloom in his chest because of that concept are sort of taking center stage to anything else right now. “Nah,” he says, doing his best to match Cas’ forced casualness mark for mark, and the little smirk that graces Cas’ mouth shows that his effort doesn’t go unnoticed. “Alright,” Dean relents. “We were college buddies.” He shrugs. “We hooked up once during finals freshman year. We were both wasted, shit, I don’t even think he likes men. We were just always weirdly close, always had each other’s backs. Anyway, complicating that with sex was a mistake. Not gonna lie, he might’ve broken my macho eighteen-year-old heart just a little bit, but he met his wife soon after that, and the two of them are so cute together, I could barf.” Dean flexes his hands on the steering wheel and glances at Cas, who’s watching him intently. He swallows and goes for broke, because no way is he bringing Cas into this situation feeling insecure. “Anyway,” he starts, reaching across the seat to grab Castiel’s hand, “Better things and all that, right?” 

A smile spreads across Cas’ attractive features and Dean warms from the inside out. He clears his throat. “You _sure_ there’s no one you wanna call and say hey to? With it being Thanksgiving and all? I know you said about not having any family, but friends? What about that dude you stayed with for a while after rehab?” 

Castiel hesitates, and his smile wanes. “I can’t imagine he thinks about me anymore,” he says slowly. “I’m sure that I was a burden to him, more than anything else. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to contact him. I did stop by his apartment a week or so before you and I met, but he’d moved. I feel as though looking him up wouldn’t be… welcome.” Castiel’s eyes are downcast and sad, and Dean tugs on his hand to bring him closer, which he obliges.

“Shit, Cas, I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.” _Way to go, asshole,_ he tells himself. _There room in that big mouth for your other foot, too?_

But Castiel waves him off. “It isn’t your fault, Dean,” he says, though he drops his face to Dean’s shoulder for a long moment, muffling his words against the stiff cotton of his dress shirt. “Your offer was very generous.” Internally, Dean seethes over the fact that kind and caring Castiel has been treated so badly that he thinks someone offering to let him use their phone is _generous,_ but externally, he just bends to kiss the top of his head. Castiel clears his throat and sits back up, smoothing Dean’s droopy, product-less hair off of his face. “Tell me more about your friend.” 

Once again, Dean accepts the attempt at a subject change for what it is and gives Castiel what he wants. “Well, uh, we were both in business school at Stanford, to start with, but he dropped out after our third year to go to culinary school. Think he felt like a failure for leaving, even though he never wanted to be there to begin with. Guy always sort of marched to the beat of his own drum. Anyhow, I stayed in California and he moved back home to New Orleans for school. Eventually, he took a position as Head Chef at this swanky hotel-based restaurant, that’s how he’s able to hook us up with a room for the next few days. We stayed in touch, but it’s been a good number of years since I’ve seen him. My fault, Sandover really just took over my life, every part of it, in ways I didn’t even realize until very recently.” Castiel squeezes his shoulder.

“You’re repairing that damage now,” he reminds him, and Dean nods. 

“Yea,” he says. “I’m sure as hell trying. And speaking of people who deserve better, I need to call my parents.” 

***

Considering that the following day is Thanksgiving and a huge event for the restaurant, Cas and Dean have some time before Dean’s friend will be free to meet up with them. While they wait, Castiel and Dean grab sandwiches from a Po’boy shop nearby, and then check-in to where they’ll be staying. The room at the Hotel St. Marie they’ve been hooked up with is gorgeous, and because of that, it’s not quite so difficult for Dean to resist simply falling into bed with Cas and filling their spare time with sex. The hotel is smack in the middle of the French Quarter, so the architecture is beautiful, the balcony off of their room no exception where it’s constructed with intricately twisted wrought iron designs and with matching patio furniture. When Dean opens the tall french doors to go sit out there and call his parents, Castiel joins him for just long enough to check the temperature of the air. Deeming seventy degrees plenty warm enough for a dip in the water, he takes off with one of Dean’s swimsuits for the courtyard swimming pool below. 

After the door closes behind Cas, Dean kicks back in one of the iron chairs, propping his legs up on the table in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. A soft, warm breeze caresses his arms where his shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows, and it’s pleasant, though he secretly thinks Cas is crazy for deciding it’s warm enough to _swim._ He watches with interest though, as Castiel appears in the courtyard, shedding his t-shirt and moving to stand at the edge of the deep end of the pool, the muscles in his back flexing as he raises his arms to dive in. As his strong, lithe body gracefully slips into the water, Dean has to put the phone down for a moment and think about things that are decidedly unsexy before he’s able to focus again, at least enough to dial his mom’s number. When he finally hits _send,_ he only has to wait less than two rings before someone picks up.

“Dean Smith, about damn time we heard from you, I’ve been worrying myself sick. What is so damn important out there on the road that you haven’t had time to give your mother a call?” 

“I miss you too, Mom,” Dean says, glad his mother can’t see the amused smile on his face. “Maybe I just wanted to make sure I had something interesting to tell you about.” 

Ellen snorts on the other end of the line. “This got something to do with your dad’s advice? Drive across the country and find yourself? Did he hook you with that story about meeting me in a bar in Nebraska? Because Dean, I think you’re old enough to hear this now, it weren’t exactly love that brought us together.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it in disgust. “Ew,” he says. “Really didn’t need to know that. And, sort of. Anyway, I think Dad was right,” Dean ventures carefully, not wanting to set his mother off. 

“Well that would certainly be a first,” Ellen replies, and Dean can tell from her tone that his father’s definitely in the room. 

“Please don’t use me to flirt with Dad,” Dean pleads, a hand coming up to cover his face.

“Now, I know you’re not sassing me, boy.” 

“No ma’am,” Dean replies automatically, his butt twinging with the memory of his mom’s reproachful swipe across it despite his thirty years and the several hundred miles between them. 

“Darn right,” Ellen says. “So tell me what you’ve been up to. You’re really driving across the country alone?” 

“Uh,” Dean says intelligently, suddenly unsure of the proper way to bring up Castiel at all.

“Holy shit, Bob, you were right. He _did_ pick someone up along the way.” A grunt in the background is the only sign that his father’s even remotely paying attention, but if Dean were a betting man, his money would be on his dad’s quiet interest. 

“His name’s Cas,” Dean offers, pausing to allow for any type of reaction, but none comes.

“ _And?”_ Ellen probes. “He got a last name, or is this like a Bono situation?” Dean laughs, and when his mother doesn’t show any signs of judgment, finds himself spilling everything. He does share that Cas was homeless but not the rest of his past, it doesn’t feel like those things are exactly his to tell, at least not without permission. But he tells her about Washington, and the hurricane he thought he was going to die in, his new car, riding the giant, terrifying Ferris wheel, and now what he’s doing in New Orleans. He makes sure to touch on all the ways Castiel has been there for him, taken care of him, and his mother responds in kind.

“Sounds like you might have a real keeper there, Dean. You gonna cock it up, or do right by him?”

“Seriously? Aren’t you supposed to have more faith in me than that?”

“We love you, baby. But the last few years have been tough, seeing you drown inside that company. We just want what’s best for you.” 

Dean grunts. “And you think Cas is it?” 

There’s a long pause before Ellen replies carefully, “ _You_ said that, baby boy, not me.” True to form, his mother doesn’t dwell on the emotional stuff, just changes tack and launches right into a completely different topic. “Did I tell you the Wessons moved back in down the street from us?” 

“When the hell would you have told me that? The Wessons? You mean that guy Dad used to go hunting with like a hundred years ago?”

“Watch your mouth. And yes, John and his wife. They have a son a couple of years younger’n you. You played together when you were kids, but I guess you might’ve been too young to remember. Anyway, they moved away when you were around six, but John used to be one of your daddy’s best friends. They’re kicking up quite the bromance since he’s been back, you should see ‘em, Dean. Jo thinks it’s hilarious.” 

“Oh, yea?” 

“Kid’s back living with them too, though I guess he’s not much of a kid anymore. Supposedly just finished up law school and moved back in with ‘em while he works on repaying his loans. Real nice young man, very polite. Pretty sure he’s starved for company his own age with all us old folks hanging around. Just got out of a rough relationship, or so I hear.”

“Mom,” Dean complains.

“What? I just think you two would get along.” Ellen’s voice is _way_ too casual, and Dean calls her on it without thinking. 

“Is this some kind of seriously roundabout way of asking me to move back to Sioux Falls? By suggesting I’ll have a ready-made, mom-approved lonely, dorky, lawyer BFF if I do?” 

“I’m just trying to help you out, Dean, plus your father and I miss you. Your sister too.” 

“Thanks, mom, but I’m thirty, so I can set up my own playdates.”

“I thought we talked about the sass,” Ellen reprimands.

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean pauses for a moment and then says, “I miss you guys.” 

“I miss you, Dean,” Ellen replies. “And I love you. You be careful out there, you take care of yourself. And Cas too.” 

“I will, Ma,” Dean tells her, his voice sincere. 

“We’ll miss you more tomorrow. I’ve got the turkey brining and everything. You gonna make it back here for Christmas?”

“That’s the goal…” Dean clears his throat. “Alright if Cas comes too?” 

“We’ll set him a spot at the table,” Ellen replies warmly. “You want to say hello to your father? Oh, wait—” There’s a muffled scuffling and a brief, unintelligible argument over the other end of the phone before his mother gets back on the line. “Your dad’s occupied, but he sends his love.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. His father’s probably elbow deep in those ultra-realistic scale-model train sets he likes so much. He kind of hopes John is into them too, his dad could use a buddy to go hunting for set pieces and build up the little worlds he has put together down in their basement. “Me too,” he says back, and Ellen sighs.

“The two of you, I swear,” she grunts. “You call here more often, Dean. Or at least send a text if you’re too busy with that man of yours.” Her tone softens. “Make the most of this,” she says insistently. 

“I will, I promise. Love you,” Dean tells her, closing his eyes and wishing he could substitute the phone for a real hug and the smell of cinnamon and leather and whiskey, a combo he never quite understood always clinging to his perfume-hating mother, but for whatever reason, it did. Ellen hangs up with the same warning he gets from his father, none, and Dean’s left feeling a little sadder than he anticipated. The melancholy fades, though, when he remembers that his parents are waiting at the end of this trip, and that he gets to fill the rest of his time with _Cas._

Speaking of which, it’s no cinnamon and leather, but chlorine-scented arms thread around his neck from behind, hugging his shoulders tightly as soft lips press gentle kisses behind his ear and down his jaw. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean says reflexively, startling himself a little at how easily the new pet name slips from his mouth. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel rumbles in his ear. “Are you alright?”

Dean takes a deep, steadying breath and nods. “Yea,” he replies. “I am. Just, you know, realizing more and more how much shit I gave up for Sandover, and how completely _not_ worth it that was.” 

Castiel nods against the side of his head before pulling away. “I understand.” 

Checking the time on his phone, Dean stands and frames Cas’ face with both of his hands to drag him into a kiss. Castiel wraps cool arms around his back and hugs him tight, opening easily and responding enthusiastically to Dean’s mouth on his. They stay pressed together like that until Castiel starts to shiver and Dean drifts back, taking a moment to search Cas’ eyes before smiling and herding them both inside.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s shower and get ready, it’s almost time to go.” 

“It would be awfully environmentally conscious of us to save water by showering together,” Castiel suggests innocently, and Dean’s already got his pants halfway off before he’s even finished talking. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Castiel says with a grin, grabbing Dean’s hand and tugging him towards the bathroom.

***

“How did we get lost when this bar is on the same street as the hotel?” 

“Shut your mouth, Cas, I’m in unfamiliar territory here,” Dean fires back as they make their way inside the bar where they’re meeting Dean’s old friend. It should have been less than a five-minute walk, but thanks to Dean turning left instead of right when they exited the hotel, their leisurely stroll swallowed up the better part of a half-hour and now they’re late. They _did,_ however, pass by several bars that piqued Dean’s interest, including one with a mechanical bull, not that he’s likely to ever be able to get up the guts to ride something like that. Maybe he can talk Cas into giving it a whirl, though, that would be funny as hell. 

_Spirits on Bourbon_ has a vibe that Dean couldn’t sum up succinctly if he tried. There’s neon on the walls and alcoholic slushie machines, t-shirts hanging from the ceiling, a barber’s chair and matching pole, and what looks to be an old Broyhill headboard nailed up like decor. But there’s also a _very_ impressive liquor spread sprawling across the shelves behind the bar, and a homey sort of feeling that Dean can appreciate. He scans the room and quickly finds what he’s looking for in the way of a tall, bearded man with a newsboy cap seated at a table in the back, tucked up against the Karaoke stage. He’s accompanied by a beautiful dark-haired woman, who smacks him on the arm and stands when she sees that Dean is headed their way.

“Benny!” Dean calls out, grinning as the man finishes biting off a huge hunk of po’ boy, his wife making a disapproving face at him that has Dean laughing openly at Benny’s expense. Benny wipes his mouth with a napkin and swallows, smiling as he opens his arms to drag Dean into an incredibly tight bear hug. “Oof,” Dean grunts under his weight.

“Been too long, brother,” Benny tells him as he pulls back. “‘S’good to see you, cher. You remember Andrea,” he says, gesturing to his wife, his remarks are a silly formality since Dean’s known her for the better part of a decade _and_ stood up at their wedding. Dean turns to give her a much less bone-crushing hug in greeting before reaching back to drape an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and include him in the conversation.

“This is Cas,” he says proudly, “He’s my—” Dean’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes widening as he drops his arm and turns to look at Castiel apologetically. _Shit, that was presumptuous,_ he thinks to himself. _Stupid, Dean._ Realizing he’s blinking dumbly in Castiel’s direction while Benny and Andrea stare at them, Dean tries to make words but they all stick in his throat. _Stupid words._ Fortunately, Castiel grabs his hand where it’s dropped to his side and squeezes.

“I’m Cas,” he says, picking up where Dean left off and holding out the hand that _isn’t_ wrapped around Dean’s to shake. “I’m Dean’s boyfriend.” Exhaling a little too enthusiastically, Dean’s having a hard time feeling anything but relieved. They probably should have talked about how Cas was going to be introduced, what they _are_ to each other, but Cas obviously feels confident enough to slap a label on them, and Dean’s more than okay with that. He worries for a second that Castiel’s just protecting himself, shutting down the need to get into his own story in an act of self-preservation, but then Castiel turns to look at him and the softness in his eyes says it all. 

“Don’t let us interrupt,” Benny nudges playfully, winking at Dean when he turns back to the table, blushing. 

“Sorry,” he starts, but Benny waves him off as they all sit down, shoving cups full of a blue slush in both his and Cas’ direction.

“Nothing to apologize for, cher,” he says. “Andrea and I remember what puppy love is like.” Andrea rolls her eyes and Dean snorts.

“Truer words,” he says. “Cas, I was the third wheel with these assholes for over a _year._ They ditched me at fifteen parties in a row before I got the hint and stopped asking them to come with.” 

Benny laughs. “Hey now,” he defends, “We were young and dumb. And we made it up to you.” 

Dean nods and elbows Cas. “By hooking up in Andrea’s dorm room instead of ours. A gentleman and a scholar, this one.” 

Benny holds up his glass to toast. “I ain’t never claimed to be either,” he says proudly. The four of them clink their glasses, and Dean watches Castiel’s face as he sips the frozen concoction, pleased when it lights up happily. The server stops by then and unloads a tray of appetizers including Cajun meat pies, crawfish fries, fried pickles, and shrimp-stuffed potato skins. Dean’s mouth waters, but he still can’t help ribbing Benny about being a high-class chef and bringing them to eat bar food.

“You’re gonna eat plenty well tomorrow afternoon,” he promises. “Vacherie’s Thanksgiving spread is somethin’ to write home about. I would know.” He raises his eyebrows and drains the rest of his drink. “Get to eatin’, we’re going out on the town.” 

***

Dean loses count of the number of bars they hit, one starting to bleed into the next somewhere around stop six. He’s drunk, and happily so, strolling down Bourbon Street with Benny at his side, a drink in each of their hands, both looking on with unmasked affection as Castiel and Andrea stumble arm-in-arm down the sidewalk in front of them. The two of them are laughing hysterically at something neither Dean nor Benny can hear, their heads knocking together as their giddy laughter almost causes them to fall off the curb and into the street. Dean couldn’t be more pleased that Cas fits in so well with his old friends, it’s almost as if he’s always been one of them. 

“You rode the hell out of that bull,” Benny says suddenly, a chuckle escaping as he wraps his lips around the mouth of his beer. 

“Shut up,” Dean murmurs, knowing full well his face is turning red. He did though, he made that bull his _bitch,_ and his thighs still burn from the effort. But it was well worth it, especially when Cas’ eyes glazed over and his mouth dropped open a little as he watched, plus the kiss and the short groping session that followed in the bathroom. That was pretty worth it, too. 

Their last bar of the night (decided based on tired feet and Andrea’s quickly waning ability to stay vertical) is somewhere Benny promises he and Cas are going to _love_ , a stop that they definitely can’t skip. Dean doesn’t pay much attention as they enter beyond noting the name, _Bourbon Pub & Parade, _and he wonders what’s so special about this particular bar, since they’ve both passed and visited what feels like a hundred. Once inside though, the appeal of this one very quickly becomes clear, and Dean grins at Benny who winks back. Everywhere he looks, there are copious men in nothing but underwear. Some are dancing on the bar, some are serving drinks, and still more are woven throughout the crowd. There are drag queens in full dress, rainbows everywhere, and boys making out in every corner (and in the middle of the dance floor). 

Dean darts a glance over at Andrea, just to check in, but she’s already off sandwiched between three half-naked dudes and grinding to a techno beat. When he looks back again, Benny’s getting the eye from a predatory-looking pair of twinks. Not that Dean can blame them, Benny’s about as bear-like as they come, and he did bring them to a gay bar. Paying the twinks no mind, Benny procures drinks and fends off advances like a pro. Dean’s so amused by it all that it’s only halfway through his replenished frozen concoction, contemplating how much he’d like to be grinding on Cas out on the dance floor, that Dean abruptly realizes the man in question is missing. Scanning the crowd, he doesn’t see Cas anywhere, and that quickly becomes worrying. It’s not like Cas has a phone they can call if he gets lost. 

Checking in with Benny, his friend’s brow furrows, understanding Dean’s concerns immediately and apologizing for assuming Cas had gone off with Andrea. “Maybe the bathroom?” He suggests, raising his voice to be heard over the music before placing a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean nods.

“I’m gonna go check,” he yells back, handing off his drink to Benny and weaving his way through the crowd. He stops briefly to ask a very drunk Andrea if Cas said anything to her about where he went, and finds himself increasingly nervous to hear that he didn’t. Dean continues scouring the crowd as he makes his way towards the hallway that hides the bathrooms, but he doesn’t see hide nor hair of Cas.

The bass-heavy music fades somewhat as Dean makes his way down the hallway to the men’s washroom, which is at the far end. Pushing open the door, the sight that meets Dean’s eyes is confusing and infuriating at the same time. A tall, broad-shouldered dude has Castiel boxed into the tiled corner and is clearly harassing the hell out of him. Castiel has his arms raised, covering and protecting his face, his shoulders slumped forward like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. It has the effect of making the guy trying to intimidate him seem bigger, like he’s towering over Cas. Still, the guy’s not small to begin with, and Dean fully accepts that he might end up a smear on the floor for what he’s about to do next. He takes a deep breath and hopes desperately that those kickboxing classes he took at the health club a few months ago are about to pay off. 

“Hey,” Dean calls out, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he feels, but when the guy turns he doesn’t hesitate, throwing his best right hook as hard as can and following it up quickly by grabbing the dude’s shoulders and burying a knee in his groin. The man cries out and crumbles to the floor, so Dean wastes no time in reaching past him to wrap fingers around Cas’ bicep and tug him away.

But Castiel flinches and jerks hastily from his touch, keeping his arms up by his face and seemingly completely unaware that Dean is there at all. “Whoa, hey, Cas, it’s alright,” Dean says, putting both of his own hands up in the air and waiting. Castiel peeks out from behind his hands and shivers, a full-body tremor that wracks him from head to toe. His eyes look haunted, and one of his eyebrows is bleeding. “Shit,” Dean says quietly, eyeing the writhing dude on the floor with renewed concern. “Cas, we’ve gotta get out of here, okay? Can I touch you?” Castiel seems to focus then, his eyes sharpening as he apparently processes who Dean is and why he’s there. He shoves away from the wall and into Dean’s waiting arms, allowing himself to be whisked out of the bathroom and into the poorly-lit hallway. 

Dean takes a second to glance towards the busy bar before deciding not to fuck with that crowd and slipping instead out the emergency exit at the end of the hall. He pulls out his phone and dials Benny as he and Cas make their way to the front of the building. Benny can clearly sense from Dean’s tone that something isn’t right, forgoing an explanation in favor of reassuring him that he’ll be right there, and to wait for him out front while he grabs Andrea. 

Sitting Cas down on the curb, Dean crouches in front of him and holds eye contact. “Cas, what happened? Are you alright?” Before Castiel can reply, though, a bouncer spots them and makes his way over.

“Everything okay here?” He’s clearly looking at Cas, and probably wondering if Dean’s the one who messed up his eye, but Castiel just slumps forward and buries his face in Dean’s shoulder without answering, so the burly man turns to Dean and raises an eyebrow. 

“Someone jumped him in the bathroom, I think,” Dean says helplessly. “You got some ice or something? A first-aid kit?” The bouncer hesitates, looking between them once again, but Castiel’s refusal to talk and his obvious desire to be comforted by Dean seems to win him over and he nods, holding up a finger as he disappears back inside the club. 

Benny comes barging out shortly after with Andrea on his arm, leaving no time for Dean to talk to Castiel alone, but Castiel clutches at his shirt and shifts so his lips are near Dean’s ear. “Please,” he whispers. “Just need to be somewhere safe.” 

“Safe like, the police department? Cas, that guy hurt you, we should call the cops,” Dean insists, but Castiel just shakes his head _no._

“Please,” he repeats. “Our room.” 

Dean looks up at Benny’s concerned face as he strokes the back of Castiel’s head, unsure what the best thing to do here is. He’s no medic, and his instincts say calling the police is clearly the right thing to do, but something about the way Cas won’t even consider the idea pulls at him. He supposes he can handle a little patch-up job in a hotel room, so long as Cas doesn’t pass out on him or something. “Sure, sweetheart,” he says finally. “Whatever you need.” 

Benny doesn’t push for details, just helps Dean get Castiel to his feet. When the bouncer returns, Benny also takes the offered dishrag full of ice and the entire first aid kit, slipping the guy a bill to let them take off with the lot. On the short walk back to the hotel, Castiel stays tucked in tight to Dean’s side, face buried in his neck and hands twined in the fabric of his shirt as if he thinks he might disappear. Dean holds the makeshift icepack to his head the whole way, awkward as it is to do so. When they finally step back inside the Hotel St. Marie, Benny sits Andrea in the lobby and accompanies Dean and Cas all the way to their door, handing off the first aid kit to Dean and raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“You call me if you need _anything,_ brother,” he says. “And if y’all aren’t up to dinner tomorrow afternoon, you text and I’ll have someone bring it up to you. You hear me?” 

“We’ll be there,” Castiel responds, surprising all of them by speaking up. “I just need…” He trails off, visibly gathering himself as he pulls away from Dean for the first time since the bathroom. “Thank you, Benny, and thank Andrea too, please. Pass on to her my apologies, I had a wonderful night before this. It was a pleasure to spend time with you both. I hope you’ll forgive me for causing such a fuss.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to forgive, angel,” Benny says firmly. “Take care of him,” he tells Dean. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gratefully, Dean waves goodbye as Benny takes off down the hall before turning to dig his key out from his pocket and open the door. 

The curtains hanging over the french balcony doors are wide open when they hobble in, casting the room in an eerie white glow from the moon and the ambient city light outside. Instead of turning on the overhead, Dean sits Castiel down on the side of the bed and switches on the lamp on the nightstand. He doesn’t try to strike up conversation yet, just opens the first-aid kit and starts rifling through it. Realizing that he has nothing to clean the wound off with, Dean leans in to kiss Castiel’s cheek before popping off to the bathroom to retrieve a damp washcloth. When he returns, Castiel’s looking up at him with a woeful expression on his face.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says, voice strained. “We were having such a nice time.” 

Furrowing his brow, Dean shakes his head. “I dunno what you’re apologizing for, man. Not gonna pretend I understand exactly what happened, and I’m sure hoping you’ll want to tell me, but nothing about being cornered in a bathroom is anything you asked for. Benny was right, you got no business apologizing, to him or me or anyone.” 

Castiel’s eyes track Dean’s movements as he crouches down again, wiping gently at the dried blood running down the side of Cas’ face before working his way up to the still-oozing gash above his eyebrow. Dean pretends not to notice, like he’s just hyper-focused on fixing Cas up, but the truth is, those eyes, Cas’ intensity… it all sends shivers down his spine. Neither of them tries to make small talk, so some iodine and a few butterfly closures later, Dean’s still quietly cleaning up the mess caked on Cas’ skin when Castiel finally speaks. 

“I went to sleep in the wrong place one night,” he says softly. “This was after the clinic and before I made myself a fixture in front of Sandover.” The last of the blood gone from Cas’ face, Dean drops his hand holding the washcloth slowly, somewhat concerned that if he moves too fast, he’ll startle Castiel into silence again. It’s maybe a stupid worry, but there it is, and he _really_ wants Cas to let him in. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s caution though, his fingers interlaced in his own lap and his watery eyes trained down on them. He swallows. “The shelter seemed safe, I had no idea what it was like after the lights went out. I went to sleep and woke up to someone standing over me, holding my backpack. He saw me looking, beat me up, took all my things. Everything, including my sleeping bag. No one came to my aid, at least, not while I was conscious.”

Castiel hesitates, wipes the back of his hand under his nose and sniffs, still refusing to make eye contact. Dean grabs his other hand and squeezes. “Hey,” he prods gently, “You don’t need to talk about this, if it’s too much.” 

But Castiel just shakes his head and takes a breath. “I’m fine,” he says, clearly lying, but Cas is a big boy and his own person, and Dean’s not about to tell him what he can and can’t do. He waits patiently and after a few moments, Castiel continues. “Wish I could say he got what was coming to him, but that would be a lie. I woke up in an ambulance, got patched up at the ER, and spent the rest of the night on the sidewalk outside the shelter since they lock the doors. Next day, I slipped in as soon as the place opened and hid in a storage closet so my attacker wouldn’t know that I was there. I was exhausted, starving, but I waited twelve hours in that closet until the whole building was asleep again. After that, I found his bunk, I grabbed my belongings, and I high-tailed it out of there. I was a coward.” 

A disgruntled noise flies out of Dean’s mouth without his permission. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, by way of explanation. “You were just trying to survive, Cas, that asshole assaulted you and stole your shit.” 

“I was a _coward,_ ” Castiel insists. “And apparently, I still am. I could have stood up to that man, but I panicked. He came on to me and I tried to run. I slipped on some water, hit my face on the sink. It’s true that he wasn’t the most savory of characters, but I think he may have been trying to help with my head.” Castiel pauses thoughtfully and then amends, “Well, _while_ he was continuing to hit on me, but still.” Even hearing the additional pieces of the story, Dean can’t bring himself to feel the least bit sorry he laid the guy out. _No means no, dickwad._ “I just… panicked, Dean,” Cas is saying. “Suddenly I was back in that shelter, I was afraid for my safety, terrified to lose the few possessions I had left. It was paralyzing, that fear. I swear, I could smell the bunkrooms, that nasty mix of cheap detergent and other people’s body odor. I barely recognized you when I saw your face.”

Castiel looks up, finally, and Dean’s heart breaks a little to see the despair written all over his face. He shifts forward and wraps both of his hands around where Cas’ are still clenched together in his lap. “You got _nothing_ to be ashamed of, Cas,” he says firmly. “That sounds like a fuckin’ nightmare. Nobody could blame you for having a little PTSD from all of it. Hell, I might have a little just hearing the story. But you’re not alone now, and you’re safe, okay?” He brings Cas’ hands up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “You won’t ever be alone like that again,” he promises, without even considering the implications of what he’s saying. “No matter what, Cas, you hear me? Even if… me and you…” He trails off but he thinks Castiel gets the point. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll always have a home with me.” 

It feels like the kind of moment that should lead into passionate kissing and fierce grabbing at each other’s clothing, but in reality, Dean and Cas just stare into each other’s eyes for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, Castiel leans down and kisses Dean softly on the lips, drawing away slowly when he sits back up. 

“I feel safe,” is all he says, though so much more is implied by the way he’s looking at Dean, in the way he holds onto his hand. 

“Listen,” Dean tells him, breaking their little moment by standing and shucking his clothes down to his boxer-briefs, prompting Castiel to do the same, though he winces when the collar of his t-shirt drags across his sore forehead. “Benny’s cool, he’s not gonna get his feelings hurt if you wanna bail on Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant, and hell, I’ll use any excuse to eat food in bed.” 

Castiel clicks off the side table light and draws Dean down into bed, arranging him on his back so that he can snuggle into his chest. “No,” he says calmly, but firmly. “I can’t let this sort of thing take control. It’s already ruined our evening, I won’t let it have anything else. I want to make _new_ memories.” 

Wrapping an arm around Cas’ shoulders, Dean holds him tight and kisses the top of his head. “That’s what we’ll do, then,” he says. “Every chance we get.” He’s silent for a moment and then adds, “Thank you, sweetheart. For trusting me enough to tell me all that.” 

It’s Castiel’s turn to be quiet, and enough time passes with no reply that Dean assumes he’s fallen asleep. He’s almost out himself when he hears a soft, “Dean?” 

“Mmm.” 

“You feel like home to me, too.” Castiel tightens his grip around Dean’s waist, and Dean holds on a little tighter too, choosing not to downplay the significance of what Cas has said with more words.

***

The next few days are somewhat of a blur, though the good kind. Thanksgiving dinner at Benny’s restaurant inside the hotel is incredible, and Dean tells him he should have dropped out of college sooner, since the only food he remembers Benny producing there was burned mac and cheese. Andrea hugs Cas tightly when she sees him, fussing and ensuring that he’s feeling alright, asking with righteous fury if he wants her to track down bathroom guy and beat the crap out of him. When Castiel laughs and hugs her back, shaking his head no with a wide smile, that’s really all that’s said about the abrupt, upsetting ending to their previous night out. They sit down together and rave about Vacherie’s spread, and Benny’s even able to join them by the end of the main course and for dessert, which is quite an accomplishment when he’s the one running the kitchen. 

After their meals, Benny goes back to work and Andrea goes home to finish preparing a second Thanksgiving dinner to be had with her parents later. For their part, Cas and Dean retreat to their hotel room to spend the rest of the day channel surfing between trashy TV and football, neither of which Castiel has any particular interest in. He seems happy to stretch out in bed and relax, though, after so many days of being on the go and in the car. Dean freshens up Cas’ bandages and rubs the tense muscles in his shoulders, and generally relishes just _being_ with Cas with no expectations. Sometime in the late afternoon, they take a short break from doing absolutely nothing to call Dean’s parents, and both of them look surprised but thrilled when Cas’ head appears in the frame next to Dean’s. Ellen makes it a point to tell Cas _three_ times that he better be there when Dean arrives for Christmas, and Castiel just nods while graciously thanking her (each time) for the invitation. When they finally hang up, Dean’s feeling all kinds of warm inside his chest and probably grinning like a damn _idjit,_ as his dad would say.

Just then, a message from his little sister pings his cell phone. 

_Jo: He’s cute!!_

**_Dean: wtf how_ **

_Jo: Mom learned how to screenshot_

**_Dean: FML_ **

**_Dean: Miss you_ **

_Jo: Me too, you big dork. See you soon?_

**_Dean: There a christmas present in it for me?_ **

_Jo: You’re such an ass_

**_Dean: Brat_ **

_Jo: Love you too_

“What are you smiling at?” Dean looks up from his phone and finds Castiel staring down at him with a little half-smile from where he’s leaning against the headboard. He clicks the power button and tosses it onto the nightstand.

“Sister,” he says, scooting up on the bed so that he can reach behind Castiel’s neck and pull him down for a kiss. “She says you’re cute.” 

“I thought you said she was smart,” Castiel retorts as he shimmies down to lay next to Dean, getting a sharp nip at his bottom lip in reply.

Castiel dozes off shortly after that with his head on Dean’s chest, so Dean sneaks the channel back to some marathon of a soap about doctors who seem to do nothing more than make out in supply closets. He watches in fascination for the next two hours while Cas sleeps, deciding eventually that he wouldn’t kick the doctor in the cowboy boots out of bed. Later that night, he and Cas chase down a late dinner and take a lazy walk along the riverside hand-in-hand. Back in the safety of their hotel room, they exchange equally lazy blowjobs and Dean has to work _really_ hard at not blurting out something that’s _way_ too soon to say as he shakes and comes down Cas’ throat. When they’re laying together afterward, Castiel smoothing soft fingers repeatedly over the side of Dean’s face, the honest and unguarded look in his eyes sure makes Dean wonder if it would actually be too soon, after all. In the end, he keeps his thoughts to himself… for now.

The next two days are filled with similar things; good food, a hell of a lot of kissing, and more walking around the city than Dean bargained for. On Friday night, Benny and Andrea pick them up outside the hotel and take them to the Mercedes-Benz Superdome for the Battle of the Bands between Southern and Grambling. “It’s tradition!” Benny declares, explaining that this is the pre-show to the Bayou Classic, the annual college football game the Dome hosts the Saturday following every Thanksgiving. Dean has a good time at the concert, but a better one at the game, and it seems like Cas does too. They even set up and watch the parade beforehand on Saturday, and Dean sits comfortably on the curb snuggled between Castiel’s legs as if they’ve been fitting themselves together that way for years. Southern wins, not that any of the four of them had any particular stake in the rivalry either way, though they cheer and celebrate as if they did.

At the end of the night, it’s time to say goodbye to Benny and Andrea, and that reality hits a lot harder than Dean had been prepared for. He’s not the only one feeling that way either, apparently, as Castiel and Andrea have become fast friends, and it’s tough to know that they probably won’t be seeing her or Benny for a very long time. 

“You two will just have to get married so we have an excuse to get together again soon, regardless of distance,” Andrea jokes, and while Dean flushes and scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly, the affectionate smile Castiel gives him nearly causes Dean to forget they’re still in public. At least, until Benny elbows him in the ribs with a loud laugh, that is. Dean starts, licking his lips and breaking eye contact with Castiel, his cheeks undoubtedly getting even redder with self-consciousness. And not just that, but also a _shit_ ton of anxiety, because _what the hell_ is happening between them lately? Dean shakes it all off, but he does make it a point to take Castiel’s hand, anyway.

Not quite ready to pack it in, the four of them end up back in the bar down the street from the hotel, drinking a mess of fruity and frozen concoctions until Benny and Andrea are so loaded they have to take an Uber home, and Dean and Cas nearly decide to pass out in the hallway of the hotel. Their sloppy, drunken farewells at least save them from what might have been an embarrassingly emotional goodbye, Dean and Benny promising to stay in closer contact going forward. All told, it’s one of the best weeks in Deans’ recollection, and a good reminder of what the purpose of this trip was, to begin with. 

The next morning as they’re checking out and packing up the car, Dean finds himself contemplating that very thing. This is turning out to be a _lot_ more than just a drive across the country. He’s not just making his way from one stop to the next, he’s building a foundation for how he wants the next stage of his life to be, and who he wants in it. At the very least, there’s no way Dean can even imagine going back to the cold, corporate grind, not now, not after all this. _Especially_ not after being exposed to everything else there is to experience out there, and all the other ways there are to _live_. He’s more determined than ever to figure out a way to get justice for Castiel, and maybe even for himself, but not if it’s at the expense of his newfound happiness and freedom. 

No, he’s never going back, of that Dean is _sure_. 

As the morning sun beats down through the windows of his car, illuminating Castiel’s peaceful face watching New Orleans disappear out the side window, Dean wonders _how_ exactly he’s supposed to do all of that. And more importantly, how to make sure Castiel knows that Dean wants him to move forward _with_ him. 

_That’s alright,_ he tells himself, as Cas glances over in Dean’s direction and smiles shyly. They have time to figure it out.

***


	6. Home is Somewhere Between Here and There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to switch up the format a tiny bit, y'all would have hated me if I didn't move this plot along, lol. But don't freak out when you start reading - I didn't deprive you of visiting all these places, just keep going and you will see. 
> 
> Warnings for explicit content, slightly toppy bottom!cas, and some more anxiety/minor PTSD issues from poor Cas.
> 
> Plus a couple more surprise cast appearances. ;) Hope y'all enjoy, this is a 10k+ chapter to make up for the format change, lol. 
> 
> Also, there is only one chapter left! Considering how long my chapters tend to be, that may not mean all that much to you.

_Austin, Texas. Clovis, New Mexico. Grand Canyon National Park. Las Vegas, Nevada. Yosemite National Park. Ely, Nevada. Salt Lake City, Utah. Jensen, Utah._

Just over two weeks pass in the blink of an eye and suddenly, Dean finds himself on the home stretch of his cross-country journey with Castiel. With a fixed destination and a particular date pre-set in stone as their endgame, there’s only so far they can travel, only so many places they can go, and sadly, only so many nights they can stay in each stopping point. Dean’s just trying to cling to and savor every moment, etch all the experiences he’s had with Castiel into his permanent memory, _just in case._ Over the last few days, he’s struggled not to slip into bouts of melancholy as he considers just how rapidly they’re approaching the end. Consequently, Dean’s been battling against his own insecurities so as not to succumb to the worry and fear that he and Cas might _end_ too, right alongside their trip. 

Dean’s trying, but it’s difficult. He and Cas have never stayed in one place for more than a few days, and they’ve only even known each other for about a month. 

Sure, they fit together perfectly, in ways Dean didn’t even know two people _could_ fit, co-existing in small spaces and rarely getting frustrated with the other’s presence, but is that only because their relationship is still so new? Is it because of the nature of the trip, that the scenery is always fresh and changing, that nothing is static? What will happen if and when they settle down into _one_ place, a place where nothing moves and the view outside their windows is the same from one morning to the next? Will they grow bored of each other, frustrated with various quirks and lesser-seen personality traits that never made themselves known out on the road? Who’s to say?

Right now, Dean can’t even imagine _not_ going to sleep and waking up next to Castiel, can’t imagine trudging through the minutiae of day-to-day life without his smile, his warmth, his dry sense of humor to look forward to, but Dean’s also not naive. He knows those feelings aren’t fixed, that people can change with time and circumstance, or even from one minute to the next. While it’s clear from both his words and actions that Castiel feels the same as Dean does _now,_ what about in six months? Two years? What happens when this entire trip is a blurry footnote to their relationship, to their lives? _What then?_

Naturally, Dean hasn’t voiced any a single aspect of these worries out loud, because that would be way too adult of him. And anyway, he truly doesn’t want to taint the new memories he and Cas are making together, doesn’t really want to _have_ this conversation at all. Most nights, Dean wishes more than anything that he was better at simply living in the moment, but the fact is, Castiel’s changed him, and for the better. The very thought, the very _idea_ that he might not be able to keep him… Well, the more it creeps out of his subconscious and into the forefront of his mind, it’s becoming nearly impossible to focus on anything else. As a result, despite his best efforts, most of the new memories he’s formed with Cas _are_ somewhat tainted, at least with worry.

Currently, Castiel is dozing off against the passenger side window of the Impala, Dean having just pulled the car back out onto Highway 40, heading east. They’d spent the previous night in Jensen, Utah, shacked up in a cheap (but not _too_ cheap) motel near Dinosaur Memorial Park, which straddles the border of Colorado and Utah, but they hadn’t done much sleeping. The drive from Salt Lake City to Jensen amounted to less than four hours, much shorter than the distance the two of them are used to covering in a day, but by two hours in, Castiel had been relentlessly whispering dirty things in Dean’s ear and he’d figured, _fuck it,_ not like they’re on a schedule.

 _Except you are, now,_ his traitorous brain reminds him and Dean winces, shifting in his seat and shooting a glance over at Cas. They have just short of a week left to make it to Sioux Falls in time for Christmas, and that should be a positive thing, a light at the end of the tunnel so to speak, that Dean can look forward to. But the excitement and anticipation of seeing his family and bringing Cas to his childhood home has dimmed significantly since they left New Orleans. It’s been replaced by the gripping fear that going home will be the beginning of the inevitable end for them, and that’s the kind of ominous worry that keeps Dean up at night. Not that _every_ moment has been filled with particular kind of stress, but Dean can’t ever seem to fully shake it off, either. 

Feeling himself sliding increasingly fast into a mopey pit of self-pity and anxiety, Dean does his best to fight the mood off before Castiel wakes up and notices. He pushes into the tape player one of the cassettes Cas had found inside a shoebox stuffed in the back of the trunk, letting the sounds of Led Zeppelin soothe his growing irritation. In the meantime, Dean tries his best to think back on some of the highlights from the last two weeks, hoping his memories will cheer him up and bring some much-needed hope for the future.

***

_Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona_

_Eleven Days Prior_

Something doesn’t feel right. Cracking one eye open, Dean groans as the red numbers of the bedside alarm clock assault his tired eyes. _Five AM, too early for eyeball usage,_ he thinks. Rolling over with the intention of snuffling up against Cas and dropping back off immediately for more much-needed sleep, Dean’s heart sinks when he finds the other side of the bed cool and empty. 

“Dammit, Cas,” he sighs, rubbing the heels of his hands into his closed eyelids. Despite his exhaustion, he only debates what to do for less than thirty seconds, knowing full well that he won’t be able to rest properly until he’s sure Castiel is alright. They’d booked a suite in a nice hotel, right on the rim of the Grand Canyon, and Dean’s found it to be rustic yet plenty comfortable. He shuffles out of the bedroom expecting to find Castiel planted on the rough-hewn log couch in the living room, or maybe sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchenette, or even out on their small balcony. Unfortunately, he doesn’t find him anywhere, but the door to the hallway is propped open using the Bible from the nightstand, and that seems like a pretty reliable lead. 

Castiel’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in the hallway, facing away from their door and staring out over the lobby through the slatted wooden railing that creates an overlook of sorts. There are two employees at the desk down below, but other than that, the place is dead. “Hey,” Dean says softly, leaning in to press a kiss behind Castiel’s ear as he sits down next to him, their knees touching.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, tilting his head to capture Dean’s mouth properly, eyes hooded and dark as he pulls away. Dean watches with open interest as Castiel bites his bottom lip, dragging it out slowly from between his teeth, looking for all the world as if he’s savoring the taste of Dean on his tongue. Just seeing Cas staring back at him, so affectionate, aroused, and soft, it all makes Dean want to drag him caveman-style back into their room and show him exactly how he makes him feel. But, Cas is out here for a reason, so Dean resists, bumping Cas’ elbow with his own instead.

“Missed you in there,” he says lightly, looking down at his hands and trying not to appear too needy. Castiel scoots closer and pulls Dean’s arm into his lap, intertwining their fingers and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder as he strokes the delicate skin of Dean’s inner arm with his free hand. Several minutes go by before Dean realizes that Cas’ head is still tilted, that he’s looking up at him, something unreadable dancing across his face _._ “Why are you out here, anyway?” Dean ventures, twisting his neck so he can lean down and peck Cas on the lips again. 

“Couldn’t sleep, too dark to see the canyon,” Castiel murmurs back. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t be out here.” He pivots slightly on the ground, his blue eyes more deep ocean than sky, lids heavy, and Dean feels a little breathless as Castiel’s hand pushes down over his abdomen to wrap around his hip. “There’s no view that beats this one,” Cas whispers, and Dean knows that’s an _incredibly_ corny thing to say, but Castiel’s face is earnest and his tone is _so_ sincere. As Castiel crawls into his space, Dean shifts from breathless to hyperventilating in an instant as teasing, sweet lips skate alongside his own, and he snaps.

Dean surges forward, pushing Castiel down onto his back right there in the hall, kissing him with every ounce of emotion he still hasn’t gotten up the guts to admit to out loud and prays Castiel feels it too. Swallowing the moans Castiel doesn’t even remotely try to suppress, Dean relishes the fingers tugging on his hair, the hand sweeping under the waistband of his shorts to grab at his ass. Being touched by Castiel is everything he never knew he was missing when it comes to sex, and he wants to savor every second of it.

 _“Cas,”_ he sighs, nosing at Castiel’s ear, his jaw, letting his tongue swipe against the grain of rough stubble. Cas’ hand pushes down at the bottom of his spine, pressing their groins together as he spreads his legs and nestles Dean between them. For his part, Dean is so lost in his mission to get as much of his skin touching Cas’ as possible that he forgets where they are, that they have a perfectly good and _private_ space just feet away. He’s worked Cas’ shirt all the way up and is _just_ closing his mouth over a nipple, Cas’ hips rocking up against him in the most lascivious way, when a friggin’ _giggle,_ a _female_ giggle, makes its way from the lobby to Dean’s ears. 

He shoots upright to sit back on his heels, leaving Castiel spread out flustered and flushed on the floor. Dean peers down through the breaks in the balcony to find the two hotel employees staring back at him, hands over their mouths and barely-concealed grins lighting up their faces. Blushing, Dean holds a hand up to wave awkwardly, flashing a small smile that earns him another round of giggles in return before grabbing Castiel’s hand and hightailing it back inside their room. He’s worried the interruption might have affected Cas’ frisky mood and turns around to ask if he’s okay to continue. To Dean’s surprise, he finds himself instead with a faceful of stubble-burned skin and lips slamming him up against the door and holding his head still with both hands so that Cas can wreck his mouth. Unapologetic in his assault, Castiel continues to kiss him sloppy and deep, multitasking as he pulls Dean’s rucked-up shirt off the rest of the way and makes short work of his own as well. 

With the way Castiel touches, the way he _kisses,_ Dean quickly loses track of both time and space. He has them half-stumbling them in the vague direction of the bedroom at one point before giving up, collapsing onto the tile in the kitchenette, a mess of groping arms and hands. Once down there, Castiel tears his mouth away to bury his face in Dean’s neck. He inhales deeply, groaning and repeating the gesture as Dean tries in vain to recapture his mouth. “You smell so good,” Cas murmurs, his breath heating the sensitive skin on Dean’s neck and making him swallow heavily. “I love everything about you,” he continues, and Dean almost swallows his own tongue trying not to blurt out a similar, yet pointedly different, sentiment.

 _That’s not what he said,_ Dean’s brain warns him. _That was not a love declaration, don’t make a fool of yourself._

And Dean _could_ clarify, true, but it’s at that very moment when Castiel surfaces from where he’s been nuzzling at Dean’s pulse point, cheeks stained a pretty pink from exertion and eyes glazed over with lust, determinedly demanding to Dean, “I want you to fuck me.” 

“Sure,” Dean replies from his place on the floor, because apparently, he’s never going to be cool or smooth again, not where Cas is concerned. “I mean, yea, that would be…” Dean winks and makes the “OK” sign with his fingers, cringing immediately and shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says, but Castiel just laughs and leans down to kiss him, this time on the mouth. 

“I believe rendering a sexual partner wordless is considered a compliment,” he replies with a mischievous grin, and Dean can’t help but scowl a little. 

“You know, I used to be cool before I met you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Castiel sits back and fixes Dean with an impressive side-eye. “Were you?”

“No,” Dean confesses, and Cas’ amused smile returns. He extricates himself from where he’s tangled up in Dean’s legs and stands, taking off for the bedroom without another word. Dean grimaces as he pushes his own body up off of the hard floor, his back protesting and knees cracking. “‘M too old for this,” he grumbles.

“Good thing I didn’t put you on all fours on this floor then,” Castiel replies, reappearing with a bottle of lube in his hands and notably, without his sleep pants, which is completely and unfairly distracting. Before Dean can add that he’d gladly suffer any amount of knee pain to be put on all fours _anywhere_ by Cas, he’s being swept up and pinned against the countertop. Cas’ arms thread around Dean’s neck, his mouth insistent, warm and wet against his own. 

Without so much as coming up for air, Castiel hoists himself onto the counter and draws Dean in between his spread legs, Dean positively delighting in the fact that Castiel can’t stand to separate their lips. He sort of feels like a teenager when he and Cas make out, they have that kind of sparking chemistry that just seems to cease to exist in people over the age of twenty-five, or so he thought. Sex with Cas is great, maybe even mind-blowing, but because of that spark, so is being wrapped around each other and just kissing, just letting their hands roam over naked skin, just sharing breath and enjoying being so close. 

Dean’s need for oxygen eventually does win out, and he breaks away from Cas’ sinful mouth with a little gasp. He can feel more than see Cas sucking in air, too, their eyes locked on each other’s from only inches away. 

_Oh no,_ Dean thinks as Castiel’s big, warm hand wraps around the back of his head, the heel of his palm resting just behind his ear, preventing him from moving away. _I am so in love with him._

And he knows he could be an adult and just say so, but instead, he buries it, afraid of rejection, or worse, pity. Deep down, Dean’s pretty well aware that the likelihood of Castiel not reciprocating his feelings is fucking small, but in some ways, that’s even harder to deal with. He hasn’t been in a relationship in _years,_ hasn’t been in love since he was a teen, and it’s terrifying. When Dean asked Castiel to come on this trip, he’d thought he was mostly doing the guy a favor. And yet somehow, Castiel’s the one who’s changed _him,_ turned everything he thought he knew and believed in on its head. Dean hadn’t realized how much he’d given up on happiness, on feeling good, on falling in love at all, and now here he is… staring down the barrel of all this shit he never even knew he wanted. 

It’s just a little too much to deal with, flooding his head this way while Cas is hard against his hip. 

So instead of trying, he grabs the lube and tucks his face into Castiel’s neck, pressing forward to slot their bodies flush together and wipe that look off of Cas’ face, the one that says he _knows_ Dean is getting lost inside his own head again. Dean grinds their dicks together, slow and dirty, feeling Castiel’s fingers bend against his skin, his nails digging into Dean’s back. Cas’ head tips up when Dean mouths at his pulse point and he moans, arching his spine to encourage Dean to continue, to get on with it. 

As far as physicality between them goes, Dean and Cas have exchanged their fair share of hand and blow jobs by this point, often in the shower and once on the side of a highway, but Dean’s never been inside Cas, and it’s starting to feel like more of a big deal than maybe it should be. They’d both gotten tested in Austin on a lark, and both of their results came in clear earlier today, so perhaps Dean should be _more_ surprised that Cas didn’t jump him before bed. But Cas can be moody about sex, so Dean hadn’t thought much of it. And why would he? Dean’s most reliable partner for the last couple of years has been his _hand. Anything_ Cas wants to share with him is fantastic, considering that sometimes simply holding hands feels like more than he deserves. 

Point being, this would be the part where someone would normally slip on a condom, but Cas didn’t bring one out. They’ve talked about this happening, several times, but Dean’s still sort of reeling that Cas would trust him that much, would _want_ to be that close to him. Dean wonders if it means as much to Castiel as it does to him. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, his hand soft on the side of Dean’s face. “Everything is alright. Would you like to stop?”

 _Would he like to…? Fuck no,_ Dean thinks. _When the hell did his head get so crowded he started giving off “not into it” vibes and didn’t even realize?_ He drops the lube onto the counter, shifting back and grabbing Castiel’s face around his jaw with both hands. “‘M sorry,” he murmurs, before crashing their lips together and licking into Cas’ mouth rough and deep. “Want you,” he says against Cas’ lips, and as if to prove it, grabs Cas’ hips and tugs them forward, knocking him slightly off balance. And because Cas doesn’t do prep and also because he knows if he hesitates he’ll end up all in his head again, Dean grabs the lube, slicks up his cock, and presses in as Castiel braces himself on the counter, chest heaving, pretty mouth slightly open. 

“You okay?” 

Castiel’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and he nods, face blissful and hands pressing down against the counter as his hips come up to slide forward and take Dean fully. Dean feels Cas’ thighs squeezing his own hips as he wraps his legs around, crossing them behind Dean’s back. 

“God, yes,” Cas replies, a hand palming down the middle of Dean’s chest, stopping at the bottom of his sternum to push gently, encouraging Dean to move. Once again, Dean has to fight against his feelings, unsure how successful he really is at not giving himself away because _now,_ he’s looking Cas right in the eyes and Cas is hot and tight around him and it’s a _lot._ It’s a fucking lot, and so sue Dean if he gets a little emotional as he thrusts into Cas and kisses him sweet and deep. 

But Castiel doesn’t waver, just threads fingers in the hair at the back of Dean’s head, moaning and sighing and being the epitome of frustrating, gorgeous perfection. Cas winds up jerking his own cock because Dean’s got a hand in between his shoulder blades and one planted on the counter holding them up, but he’s not quiet about reaching the finish line. He makes Dean look him in the eyes when he comes, and then mercifully lets him tuck his stupid, teary face away in his neck while he thrusts and finishes himself off, clutching Cas close and feeling some type of way about the whole moment being _over,_ when it is. 

He doesn’t let Dean retreat into himself afterward, either, nor does he push for conversation. Dean cleans them up in the bathroom and then Castiel bundles them into bed, curled up together face-to-face as if he intuitively knows just how much Dean needs it. 

They kiss for so long that Dean has no memory of stopping or falling asleep. 

***

_Las Vegas, Nevada_

_Three Nights Later_

On their second night in Vegas, Dean finally discovers why Castiel’s never there when he wakes. 

Dean’s sleep had already been restless that night, for whatever reason, _possibly_ having something to do with the heartburn and discomfort his stomach was feeling in the wake of four trips through the _unbelievably_ stocked all-you-can-eat buffet he and Cas had “earned” through pouring money into slot machines.

“I paid three hundred dollars for this buffet, Cas,” Dean had pointed out petulantly. “You’re damn right I’m gonna get my money’s worth.” Castiel shrugged and said he couldn’t fault that logic, but resisted the urge to join in on Dean’s third and fourth trips through the food lines. Not that he was about to give Cas the satisfaction of hearing him admit it out loud, but that had probably been a smart decision. Hours later, Dean was still feeling like that dude from _Alien_ every time he so much as tried to turn over. 

Fortunately/unfortunately, Dean’s stomach isn’t what wakes him this time. At first, the soft moaning noises aren’t even enough to fully pull him from sleep, drifting lazily into Dean’s dreams and just barely alerting him to the fact that he isn’t awake. Following the sounds to the surface, Dean regains consciousness slowly, and with not a small amount of confusion. By the time he opens his eyes and they adjust to the darkness of the room, Castiel’s not only moaning but tossing and turning and creating a knot out of the bedsheets twisted around his legs. Dean props himself up on an elbow and quickly realizes that Cas’ head is flat on the mattress, his pillow cradled tightly in his arms, and it’s not too difficult from there to guess the general context of his nightmare.

“Cas,” Dean says softly, placing a gentle hand on his bare shoulder and shaking, unsure how much he should risk startling the already distraught man. _Aren’t you supposed to avoid waking people having nightmares? Or is that just sleepwalkers?_ Unable to remember for the life of him, Dean weighs his options and soon decides that Castiel looks miserable enough to risk it. “Come on, Cas,” he says, louder this time with a hand on each shoulder and a much less gentle shake. 

Wrong decision.

Cas’ eyes fly open without seeing and he attacks, kneeing Dean in the gut before flipping them over, sending them flying off the bed and onto the floor. Landing with a loud grunt, Dean’s too surprised to even fight back, letting Cas grab his wrists and pin them above his head. That probably _is_ the right decision, considering it immediately hands all of the power and control over to Castiel, who still doesn’t seem to be fully awake. Dean swallows hard, staring up into a face that’s all might and wrath, appearing as if it’s carved from stone where he hovers and straddles Dean’s hips, and _not_ in the sexy way. 

“Shit, Cas, you wanted to roleplay, all you had to do was ask. I could dig a little cops and robbers action,” Dean jokes weakly and Castiel blinks, suddenly releasing Dean’s hands and scampering backward across the room, a look of horror falling over his face and making him seem touchable again.

“Fuck, Dean, I am so… so, sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t—I usually wake up, I don’t know why…” Castiel buries his face in his hands and takes several deep breaths. In the meantime, Dean cautiously sits up but doesn’t try to get closer, concerned that Castiel might still want his space. But all Castiel does is reach for his backpack, digging in one of the side pockets to pull out his bottle of anti-anxiety medication, popping one and dry swallowing it without hesitation.

“Hey, man,” Dean says with a shrug, putting aside the revelation that Castiel hasn’t stopped taking his pills (Dean’s just been unaware he still needed them) for now. “I put myself in the line of fire. Anyway, I think we should both just be glad my stomach didn’t decide to boot all over you, that was an unfortunately placed kick.” Lifting his face from his hands, if it’s even possible, Castiel looks _worse._ “Hey, no, none of that,” Dean says quickly, waving a hand at him. “Shit, I wasn’t trying to lay down another guilt trip. Sorry, Cas. Bad joke.” 

“It wasn’t, though,” Castiel replies mournfully. “I kicked you, I knocked you out of bed. I could have hurt you.” He visibly tightens his grip around the knees he has pulled into his chest. “I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Taking a chance and crawling forward, Dean reaches out a hand in Cas’ direction. “Hey, will you stop saying that? You were asleep, you didn’t know what you were doing.” Once he’s within touching distance, he lets his palm come to rest on Cas’ warm shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief when Cas doesn’t flinch or push him away. “Come on, man, come here.” With a little encouragement, Castiel folds forward into Dean’s arms, pressing his face to Dean’s chest in obvious shame. “I get why you didn’t, but I still wish you would have told me,” Dean whispers.

“I had good intentions,” Castiel replies, speaking into Dean’s skin and refusing to lift his face. “I didn’t want to wake you, or bother you, or make you worry about something neither of us can control.”

“This happens every night?” 

There’s a long moment of silence and then a low, gravely, “Yes.” 

“You wake me from now, on,” Dean insists fiercely, pulling back to grab Castiel’s biceps in both hands, holding him firmly while he looks him in the eyes. “If I don’t wake up on my own.”

“No, Dean,” Castiel protests, putting a hand in the middle of Dean’s chest to try and push him away, but Dean just grabs it, kisses his knuckles. 

“No, yourself,” Dean retorts, but he can see Castiel withdrawing right in front of his eyes. “Don’t do that,” he says, but Castiel barely looks up. “Hey, come on. We’ve all got our shit, you’ve sure as hell helped me through a bunch of mine.”

“Yes, well, my _shit_ makes yours pale in comparison,” Castiel replies sullenly.

“Good thing it ain’t a competition then, huh?” The glare Dean gets in reply is encouraging, because a salty Cas is definitely easier to deal with than one who’s retreated inside his own head, or so Dean suspects. Considering how stubborn Cas is, though, Dean knows he’s gonna have to do better than that. He reaches out and lifts Cas’ chin with the fingers of his right hand, making it a lot more difficult for him to look away. 

Dean sighs. “Listen, I’m not an idiot. I know perfectly well that a few hugs and kisses, some sweet talk and warm milk don’t do shit to hunt demons trapped inside your own head. I _know_ that. But I also know it sucks fighting them on your own. I’m _here,_ Cas. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. And you can’t lie to me, I already know some of your issues come from having people you should have been able to trust leaving you out in the cold. If you’d stop shutting me out, let me prove to you that I’m never gonna do that, then maybe _some_ things might start to get better.” Castiel stays silent, but Dean can see the wheels turning, so he pushes on. “What do you have to lose, man? Yea, maybe this is all bullshit, but I _never_ would have believed a word of it two months ago, and now look at me. That’s because I let _you_ in, Cas. And my life only got better for it.” He pauses and runs a hand through his hair, shrugging as he lets Cas’ chin go. “You got every right to tell me to fuck off if that’s really what you want. But I’m asking. Please, Cas,” he says, softly but evenly, waiting until Cas’ eyes raise to meet his own again before continuing. “Please, just… let me love you.” 

Holding unwavering eye contact and trying his best to look outwardly confident, Dean inwardly braces for rejection and steels himself against the probable “ _this is too much, too fast,_ _"_ but it never comes. Instead, Castiel’s guarded look melts into something so much softer, and it’s not difficult at all to see that he understands how hard those words were for Dean to say. 

“On one condition,” Castiel finally replies, and that’s not exactly what Dean was expecting, but he’s more than willing to roll with it. He nods and Castiel moves forward, climbing into his lap and draping arms around his neck. Dean closes his eyes and relishes the feel of the back of Cas’ hand drifting down the side of his face. “We are not so different, you and I,” he murmurs. “I accept your proposition, so long as you agree to the same.” Dean’s eyes pop open and he raises his brows, but Castiel’s admonishing look prevents him from speaking. “Don’t think I don’t see you,” he says, “convincing yourself that I don’t feel the same, anytime you begin to feel emotional.” Dean feels the flush creeping up his cheeks but forces himself to hold Cas’ steady gaze, lest he thinks Dean’s trying to go back on his word. “I’m not stupid either, and this is a two-way street,” Castiel tells him. “You have to let me love you, too.” 

“Done.” Dean breathes, for once not overthinking what’s between them, and Castiel smiles one of his little half-smiles that somehow brightens the entire room. “See,” Dean prods, poking him just underneath his ribcage the way he knows Castiel hates. “Look at those pearly whites. You’re feeling better already.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, smile only getting wider. “I am.” 

***

_Ely, Nevada_

_Four Nights Later_

As far as Dean’s concerned, Ely, Nevada has _less_ than nothing to offer those who pass through it. The “El Rancho” motel is about as divey as motels get, the kind of place with a single plastic chair outside the room and weird, unidentifiable stains dirtying up various fabric surfaces. But for thirty-two dollars a night, Cas had all but insisted they experience it, in the name of “adventure” and “variety” and a whole bunch of other bullshit Dean honestly doesn’t quite understand. If he wants adventure, he’ll let Cas bend him over Baby’s hood and pound him two turns off the highway where anyone could happen along and see them. A smile cracks his face as he relives that particular memory, wishing he was back out there with the fresh air and sun beating down on his back, Cas giving him the best reach-around of his life (not that he’s got anything to compare to) until he came all over Baby’s back tire. 

_Fuckin’ hot, now_ that _was an adventure,_ Dean thinks with satisfaction _._

This shitty motel room with barf-green carpeting? Not so much. 

While Castiel braves the moldy shower, Dean does his best to ignore the permanent cigarette smell lingering in the air and kicks back on the bed ( _after_ pulling off the comforter). He tries hard to feel grateful that at least the sheets smell as if they’ve been recently laundered, and that nothing he’s laying on is stiff or sticky. Absently, he makes a mental note to liberate Cas’ sleeping bag from the Impala’s trunk to use as a blanket later. It’s not big enough to fully cover both of them, but at least they know where it’s been. 

Dean closes his eyes and listens to the shower run, imagining he’s back at Yosemite Park, wrapping arms around Cas from behind as they take in the sight of one of the big waterfalls at the end of a long hike. It was beautiful, and they have no pictures to remember it by because they were both distracted by feeling each other up. Dean reflects happily on the image of Cas pinning him up against a particularly large tree, getting a thigh between his legs and licking into his mouth, possessive and affectionate all at the same time. 

He shivers, goosebumps pricking the skin of his arms despite the ambient temperature in the room, and shuffles through some more of their greatest hits. That memory overlooking the waterfall certainly isn’t a bad one, nor is the follow-up where they’d chased each other back down the trail, laughing and stumbling, grabbing at hands and waists and stopping to kiss behind groves of trees like horny teenagers. Dean sighs as he opens his eyes and finds himself staring at a greyish-brown water spot on the ceiling above his head. This place is no Yosemite.

The water’s still running and Castiel’s taking forever to get clean, so Dean shoves himself off the bed and steps outside the room to survey what he can see of the “city” they’ve landed in. City is really a generous word, this place is just a collection of nondescript beige and brick buildings dropped in the middle of a valley. It _could_ be pretty here, Dean supposes, if it weren’t so goddamn dull. The sun’s almost set, and the orange-pink glow creeping over the edges of the mountains above and around them probably makes the place look as good as it gets, and that’s not helping Dean’s disappointment at being stuck here. He should have insisted they keep driving, but Castiel so rarely asks for something, he’s loath to turn him down when he does. 

Though why the fuck he asked for _this,_ Dean imagines he might never fully understand. 

Wandering back inside the room, he finds Castiel stark naked and rubbing a rough-looking towel through his hair to dry it, the sight causing Dean’s cock to give an interested twitch. “Any other time and I’d have had you face down on the bed by now,” he remarks. “But I gotta be honest, I kinda don’t want either of our junk touching literally any surface in this room.” Castiel rolls his eyes and steps into a fresh pair of jeans, apparently forgoing underwear because as Dean is quickly learning, _the world is fucking unfair._

“There’s a bar down the street,” Castiel tells him, throwing Dean a clean flannel and motioning for him to change. Dean doesn’t usually wear flannels but fuck, they’re having an _adventure_. Might as well blend. He strips off his button-down and trades it for the soft overshirt, instantly wondering why the hell he _doesn’t_ wear flannel in the first place. He turns around and spreads his hands for Cas’ approval, and if the lip-biting action he gets in return is any indication, Cas likes the flannel on him too. 

“A bar?” he prompts. 

“Right,” Castiel replies, tossing Dean his keys. “Bar, restaurant, casino. I made us a reservation for dinner, and then we can blow off some steam.” 

“I know _other_ ways we could blow off steam,” Dean counters, somewhat gambled out from Las Vegas. Not that it wasn’t fun, drinking and wandering around the casinos, walking down the Strip with beers in hand and making out just about anywhere they felt like it, but they just finished _doing_ that no more than three days ago. Yosemite was a nice respite and a good recharge, but Dean’s not done relaxing and recovering from all the lights and sound just yet. “Not really feeling a casino tonight,” he admits. 

Castiel’s expression darkens and his brow furrows, and Dean can’t help but find that odd as hell. He watches as Cas chews his lip and darts glances at the screen of Dean’s phone before finally tossing it on the bed and sitting down next to it with a resigned sigh. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“No,” he replies.

“Be serious for a minute,” Castiel chastises, patting the space on the bed across from him. Dean sits down, careful to avoid the folded-over comforter, and waits expectantly while Castiel chews his nails. “I lied to you,” he says finally. 

“Okay,” Dean replies calmly. “‘Bout anything important? Oh shit, are you pregnant?” 

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, exasperated. “Please.”

“Okay,” he says with a grin, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “‘M sorry. I’m listening.”

“Aren’t you worried? I just told you that I lied to you.” 

Dean shakes his head and falls back on the pillows, which go disappointingly flat as soon as he hits them. He brings his hands up and tucks them behind his head anyway, crossing his legs at the ankle. He knows he’s probably driving Cas nuts, but the fucker deserves it, making them stay in this shithole. “First of all,” he says when he’s comfortable, “I know _you,_ and I know all the important shit about you, the stuff that would make me head for the hills. So unless you’re actually a serial killer and your entire backstory was a cover so that you could use me as a long-term alibi, then no, I’m not worried.” 

Castiel squints and cocks his head to the side, and seriously, if this room were just a _little_ bit cleaner, he’d take the risk and ravish the adorable bastard right then and there. As it is, Dean resists, noting that the water stain above their heads has grown over the last half hour. That seems like a really good sign. 

“Alright,” Castiel says slowly, and Dean pulls a hand out from behind his head to scoop one of Cas’ up off of the bed and kiss it. 

“Spill, sweetheart,” he encourages.

“My brother lives in this town,” Castiel says in a rush. 

Dean sits bolt upright. “Your…?” 

Nodding and keeping his face directed down at his lap, Castiel peeks up at Dean apologetically before grimacing. “We haven’t spoken in years. He and our father didn’t get along. He’s actually older than me, he should have been first in line to inherit the company, but…” Castiel trails off and shrugs. “They had an argument shortly after he turned eighteen that resulted in Gabriel packing up and moving out. I was forbidden from keeping in contact with him, but he wrote me postcards. He always sent them to the company, never signed them, but I knew it was him. The last postcard I received before Zachariah did what he did was from this town. I was able to look him up and, well, it would appear that he owns the hotel and casino I was going to take you to tonight.”

Dean gapes for a moment, unsure what to say, falling back on what feels safe. “He owns a _hotel?”_ The “and we’re staying _here?!_ ” is implied, but judging by Castiel’s return glare, he gets it. “Sorry,” Dean says. 

“I’m sorry that I lied to you,” Castiel offers back, but Dean waves him off.

“No, man I get it, I mean, this is a big thing. Scars from your childhood, and all that. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Castiel nods. “I feel very guilty about how I’ve treated Gabriel. When our father died, I didn’t contact him. I don’t know if he’s tried to contact me since. I have no idea if he even knows he’s passed, if he knows I’m no longer at Sandover, any of it. And I’m afraid that he won’t want to see me.” Still processing, Dean tries to work out what Cas’ plan here was, but Castiel seems to read his mind and fills in the blanks before he can ask. “I just thought I would… try and see him, that’s all. I thought maybe he wouldn’t recognize me and then I’d be off the hook, but I realize now that’s just so…”

“Cowardly?” Dean suggests, and Castiel bobs his head in tacit agreement. 

“Completely.” 

“Well,” Dean says, with a slap of his palms to his thighs as he stands, “Now I know why you wanted to stay in this dump _,_ at least.” 

“Gabriel’s hotel is just a mile down the road,” Castiel says miserably. “I thought, worst comes to worst, we could get drunk and stumble back. I never meant to heap this on your shoulders.”

“Psh,” Dean replies. “What’s a road trip without a little family drama? Let me ask you something, Cas.” He waits for permission, and Castiel looks up at him, blue eyes wide. “Gabriel a good big brother?” 

Cas doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, absolutely,” he says.

“And he tried to keep in touch with you, even though your asshole dad cut him out?” Again Castiel nods. “He ever do anything to hurt you, act like he didn’t understand you following in your dad’s footsteps instead of his?” 

“No,” Castiel tells him. “No, of course not.” 

Dean sticks out his lip. “I’m not expert on brothers,” he says, “But I’d forgive my little sister a hell of a lot worse than that. And I’d miss her, if she disappeared out of my life, especially if she didn’t want to. For whatever my vote’s worth, I say we hit this dude up.” Castiel fidgets with his hands in his lap but eventually nods, standing and visibly gathering himself. “Okay, but one thing,” Dean says, holding up a finger. “We’re staying at _his_ hotel. Best case, we get a free room. Worst case, the ceiling doesn’t come down on our heads in the middle of the night.” He points upward to where the sludgy water spot is still expanding and Castiel balks, making a disgusted face. 

“Point taken,” he agrees, gathering his things and shoving them back into his bag. 

“Hallelujah,” Dean replies, grinning with relief. “You know,” he adds conversationally as they head out the door, careful to ensure they leave nothing behind, “New room puts sex back on the menu.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Castiel slaps his ass. 

“They have an indoor pool _and_ a hot tub.”

“Seriously, Cas? Listen, you got any more family out there I should know about? Maybe a fourteen-year-old son that’s gonna cause me to have to sleep in an actual dumpster? A cousin we need to shack up in a brothel to avoid meeting? Just tell me upfront, I wanna be prepared.” 

“You’re such an ass.” 

“You love me.”

“I really do.” 

***

_Somewhere in Northwestern Colorado,_

_Present Day_

_Nine Days Until Christmas_

As if Dean’s thoughts have power, the phone on the seat between him and a sleeping Castiel buzzes with a text from the one and only Gabriel. Castiel’s still adamantly refusing Dean’s offer to buy him his own phone, so he’s been carrying on a nonstop text conversation with his brother via Dean’s ever since they’d left Ely. 

If he’s being honest, Dean’s still patting himself on the back for facilitating that reunion, one that turned tearful and slightly awkward for him pretty much as soon as Gabriel caught sight of Cas from across the hotel lobby. Turns out, he _did_ know their father was dead, and he didn’t hold Castiel responsible for the way their family had treated him, especially after he heard what Cas had gone through with Zachariah. It seemed as if Gabriel had been aching to reach out and make contact with Castiel just as much, but with his postcards going unanswered, he’d assumed he wasn’t wanted. 

After that was all cleared up, Dean had never seen Cas so happy. He was practically glowing as Gabriel proudly paraded him around the hotel and then shoved him in the pool with all his clothes still on. Cas came up sputtering and laughing even as Gabriel smugly announced that now they were “even” for Cas not returning his attempts at contact. Castiel had hopped out of the pool and hugged him tightly, ignoring the protests as he gleefully soaked through Gabriel’s work button-down and trousers. 

Dean ended up hanging out and playing poker in the casino for several hours as Cas and _“Gabe,”_ as he now insisted on being called, sat together at the bar and caught each other up on their lives. In all honesty, Dean _might_ have been a _little_ jealous, especially of how goddamn _happy_ Cas looked, that is, if Castiel hadn’t turned those misty eyes on him, throwing arms around his neck and thanking him like Dean did anything besides drive the car that got them there. Plus, Gabe comped their room (which did not have suspicious stains or a moldy ceiling) and the killer blowjob Cas doled out later was easily top three in his entire life. Add in the fact that it happened on a clean comforter in a room that smelled like dryer sheets, and Dean was one happy camper. 

Hey, he's never claimed to be a complicated man.

Undoubtedly, they would have ended up staying several more days at Gabe’s place, and Dean even worried that Castiel might want to be left behind there permanently to be with his brother. But their timing wasn’t great, and Gabriel was headed out of town the next day on business he couldn’t cancel. When the time came to say goodbye, Castiel gave no indication he’d even considered staying behind, and Dean was far too selfish to be the one to bring it up. He did, however, give Gabriel his address in Sioux Falls and invite him for Christmas, and he truly hopes for Cas’ sake that he’ll make it. Not to mention that he could use a buffer with his parents breathing down his neck about his living situation _and_ his and Cas’ relationship, and Gabriel’s pretty alright to hang with. He’s got a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor that Dean can appreciate, and if it’s that or be grilled endlessly by Ellen Smith, he knows which one he’s choosing. 

Across the car, Castiel stirs and stretches, tugging Dean from his daydreams and smiling when he catches sight of Dean looking at him. Without a word, Cas unbuckles and leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Dean says while Castiel just drops his head to Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling like a cat. 

“Hey,” he replies gruffly, into Dean’s shirt ( _flannel, because Cas has created a monster)_. “Was dreaming about you.” 

“Oh, yea? What about?”

“Yes,” Castiel tells him, surfacing and taking the shell of Dean’s ear between his teeth. “Find a spot to pull over, and I’ll show you.” 

Dean’s never taken an exit so fast in his life.

***

_Denver, Colorado_

_Present Day_

_Five Days Until Christmas_

“Where is she? We’ve been in here for fifteen minutes already, I’m gonna be a raisin by the time she gets her ass down here.” 

Patting Dean on the head and handing him his beer, Castiel hoists himself out of the bubbling swim spa (that’s currently functioning as a hot tub) and drips his way over to where Dean’s phone is sitting atop his discarded clothes on a garden chair. Squinting in the light of the late-afternoon Denver sun that streams in through the large number of windows, he swipes a few times across the screen, grumbling when his wet fingers have the device refusing to cooperate. “Says she's—” 

“Sup, bitches?!” Charlie hollers from the open doorway to the backyard, her shock of bright red hair seeming to pop into view before the rest of her. The strands blow wildly around her face in the cool wind as she skips towards them, leaving the door open behind her as she does. 

“Here,” Castiel finishes, shivering at the blast of almost-winter air that assaults his wet skin. He wastes no time in abandoning Dean’s phone again in favor of hopping back into the spa. Cas sighs in contentment as he sinks beneath the churning water. Dean watches with unhidden affection as Cas makes himself comfortable at his side, resting his damp head of hair against the arm Dean has splayed out across the edge of the tub. 

“I come bearing gifts,” Charlie declares, setting a cooler on the table conveniently placed up against the tub. “Get ‘em while they’re cold!” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Dean replies happily, knocking the lid off of the Coleman and exchanging his empty for a fresh, cold beer. Charlie leans over and pops the cap off for him despite being mid-removal of her shirt. 

“I brought these too,” she says, tilting her head towards the door as her roommates, Dorothy and Rowena, wander in, bickering over the trays of snacks each of them are holding. “Good thing I’m here to appreciate all the lovely ladies in skimpy swimwear,” she sighs dreamily. “It’d be wasted on you two.” 

“Hey, bisexual, here,” Dean protests, raising his hands in affront. “That’s bi-erasure,” he complains, waving his bottle in Charlie’s direction.

“Not that it matters, or that I’m looking, but I’m pansexual,” Castiel offers. “Not that I believe you need to be sexually attracted to a person to appreciate the beauty of the human body.” 

“My apologies,” Charlie says, bowing a little in their direction before grabbing her own beer and splashing in, settling on the submerged bench across from them in the tub. “Although, it probably helps to be a lady lover to appreciate this,” she says with a smirk as Rowena settles on her left and Dorothy on her right.

“No doubt,” Dean replies, unfazed. He and Cas have been living in Charlie’s extraordinary Victorian home in Denver’s North Capitol Hill neighborhood for the better part of a week now, and he’s quickly become accustomed to her quirks. Finds them endearing, even, and wishes he could take her home with him to meet Jo (and possibly keep her forever). So far as he can tell, Charlie, Rowena, and Dorothy all date, though Charlie has her own room while the girls share, and that’s all he really needs to know about that. Charlie rents out the home’s large master bedroom on Airbnb, and her mom lives in the last one, where she receives ‘round the clock nursing care. Charlie’s mom is in a coma and on a vent to support her breathing, has been for years, though Charlie isn’t keen on talking about it, so those are basically all the details Dean has. He knows Charlie loves her more than anything, though, that she spends hours each day sitting and reading chapters to her from various favorite books. At the same time, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the toll of caring for her mother and seeing her in that state wears on Charlie greatly. 

It’s pretty clear to Dean that Charlie rents out her additional room for company, not for income, and he suspects that’s also part of her “two girlfriends are better than one” schtick too, not that he doubts Charlie loves them both. The fact is, Charlie’s dropped plenty of not-so-subtle hints that her computer hacking skills are what keep the household afloat, not her renters, or her day job. Whatever her reasoning is for renting though, Dean’s just glad she does. He feels like they hit the jackpot in finding Charlie, and as each day passes he’s having a harder and harder time facing the reality that he soon will have to leave. 

From the first moment they met, he and Charlie clicked, bonding over various tv shows and movies, even Charlie’s nerdy role-playing games. In a lot of ways, Charlie felt like a version of Dean he _wished_ he could be, and now free from Sandover and that buttoned-up, stifling life, he seized the opportunity to dive headfirst into _any_ opportunity to let his nerd flag fly. And Charlie, for her part, was thrilled to have someone in the house to share her less “cool” interests with. Rowena and Dorothy were both more new-agey, into Wicca and Witchcraft, which were less Charlie’s bag. So when Dean lamented the fact that he wouldn’t be here for Charlie’s role-playing group’s next “Kingdom of Moondoor” LARP, Charlie sprang into action. She managed to organize almost all of the regulars for a special middle of the week event, dressing Dean up in borrowed medieval attire and dubbing him her “Handmaiden.” 

“Perks of being the Queen,” she’d said with a wink when Dean couldn’t get over how quickly she’d been able to throw the massive game together. Over the course of an afternoon at the park, Dean engaged in fake battles, solved a mystery, and generally basked in being the Queen’s right-hand man. In other words? He _loved_ it, his only regret being that he wouldn’t be there for the next one. When they arrived home that night, Dean had found Castiel happily pouring over some musty old books with Rowena and discussing enthusiastically the effects of intention on spell-casting. While he didn’t buy into any of that supernatural crap, it was awesome to see Cas so content and readily making friends. And the fact that Dean’s costume had apparently been an extreme turn on, resulting in Castiel knocking over a chair in his haste to get up from the table and drag Dean off to their room, was no small bonus, either. 

The bottom line is, the two of them have really slipped into a routine here in Denver, falling into place in Charlie’s home as if they’ve always been there, or at least as if they’re _meant_ to be a part of this little family. Charlie, Dorothy, and Rowena switch off making breakfasts in the mornings, everyone’s on their own for lunch, and Dean and Castiel make dinner, every night. Considering that Dean’s never cooked in his life before this week, that’s been somewhat of an interesting adjustment, but as he’s quickly discovered, cooking with Castiel is domestic as hell, and a surprising turn-on. Dean may never be able to see marinated shish-kabobs without popping a boner again. 

Most nights after dinner, the five of them chill in Charlie’s finished basement (and the part of the house that reminds Dean most of her). The house’s lowest level is cozy, with exposed brick and a wet bar, a big-screen TV and all sorts of gaming systems. Charlie’s posters clutter the walls, and her nerdy knick-knacks and collectibles are all over the shelving. Dean finds himself fighting off weird pangs of jealousy alongside the desire to have something similar for himself someday whenever he’s down there. Sometimes they play drinking games, talk, or watch movies, sometimes Charlie kicks all of their asses at Halo or Super Mario Kart. Most evenings, they end up smoking weed and eating junk food late into the night, until one or more of them decides that private time is in order and the group breaks apart. 

Dean can’t remember _ever_ being so content in his entire life. 

And what’s more, it certainly seems to answer the question he had about what staying in one place with Castiel will be like. Sure, it’s only been a few days, but Dean can’t see himself getting tired of cooking with Cas, and cleaning with Cas, and falling into bed with Cas at the end of a long day doing everything or nothing at all. He’s _so_ unbelievably in love, and he’s got no idea how he got here, or what he did to deserve it.

It makes him more determined than ever to figure out a way to clear Cas’ name. He’s got a few ideas brewing, but nothing concrete just yet. Dean’s pretty sure that Charlie would help if he asked her, but he hasn’t yet gotten up the guts ( _how do you ask a new friend to hack your old employer?!_ ) to find out for sure. _What we need to figure out is what we’d do with the information, first,_ he reasons, and that’s where he’s stuck. He doesn’t know any lawyers, and he’s certainly not going to even pretend he has any idea what legal statutes might or might not apply, and who knows who else Zachariah and Roman have bought off? So even if Charlie’s digging _does_ reveal something helpful, it’s useless unless Dean can figure that out. Unfortunately, this is their last night in Denver, so if he hasn’t had an idea yet…

“Hello, earth to Dean?” Charlie snaps her fingers in front of his face, flicking water onto his skin, and Dean blushes when he realizes that everyone is staring at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Heat must be getting to me.” 

“Sure,” Charlie replies skeptically. “We were just discussing going out later? You guys are leaving tomorrow, and you’ve barely seen any of Denver.”

“I saw Commons Park,” Dean points out and Castiel snorts. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies with a smirk, and Dean wonders if he’s remembering Dean’s LARPing costume, or more accurately, taking it off. _Down, boy,_ he thinks in the direction of his dick, suddenly grateful for the abundance of foamy suds in front of him. _Not a good time._ Like usual, Castiel seems to sense his train of thought, his little smile widening suddenly as Charlie looks on with narrowed eyes. Both Dorothy and Rowena seem tipsy enough not to even notice the sudden shift in mood, for which Dean is thankful.

“So,” Dean says awkwardly, “We’re going out?”

Charlie squints at him further but seems to decide to let it go. “Well, that’s what we were discussing, space cadet. Dealer’s choice, though, whatever you two want, you’re the guests of honor.” 

Glancing over at Castiel, Dean hopes he’s reading the expression on his boyfriend’s face correctly. “Actually,” he says, clearing his throat. “I kind of like it here, Charles. Being our last night and all, I think we’d rather stay in.” Castiel squeezes his thigh under the water, and Dean feels relieved that he read him right. Charlie grins and holds out her beer, clinking it against his.

Later, after steaks and veggies cooked outside on the grill, a handful of card games, two movies, some good weed, and a _lot_ more beer, he and Cas find themselves reluctantly bidding goodnight to the girls for the last time. They’ll see each other in the morning, of course, but it still feels like the end of something, and in a way, it is. When he lies down next to Castiel in their bed, Dean feels restless again. It’s an annoying resurgence of the same nerves he couldn’t shake on their drive to Denver, back when he wondered if he and Cas would still _work_ if they were stuck in one place. 

“Something on your mind?” Castiel asks, his hand slipping from Dean’s hip to brush over the front of his boxers, where absolutely nothing interesting at all is going on. He sits up slightly, looking down at Dean who is resolutely still staring at the ceiling in the dark. “Are you alright?”

Tipping his head to the side so that he can look into Cas’ eyes, Dean raises a hand and lets it trail down the side of his stubbled face. “You look good in this bed, Cas,” Dean murmurs and Castiel raises his eyebrows. “I’m just saying.” Dean shrugs and goes back to staring at the ceiling. He feels Castiel’s hand slide up his ribs and come to rest in the middle of his chest, but he stays quiet, clearly waiting Dean out. Despite the late hour and their need to get a reasonably early start the following day, Dean’s restlessness wins out and he sits up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “I’m just saying,” he repeats. “What if… what if we stayed?” 

The cool air on his bare back is abruptly replaced with comforting heat from Castiel’s body as he wraps himself around Dean’s shoulders, kissing him once behind the ear. “We can’t stay here,” Castiel tells him gently. 

“I know,” Dean replies a little too quickly, and his voice is strangely thick in his throat, in a way he _definitely_ didn’t give permission for. _Rude._ All the same, he reaches up and covers where Cas’ hands are clasped near his sternum with his own. “Wishful thinking.” 

“We’ll keep in touch with Charlie,” Cas insists. “Denver isn’t so far from Sioux Falls. We’ll visit, and wherever we end up, we’ll make it just as nice, just as welcoming.” 

“I dunno, Cas. That’s like, a twenty thousand dollar swim spa down there.” _Fuck, why are his jokes always so transparent when he’s emotional?_

“It’s just money,” Castiel says, his tone _just_ this side of poking fun. “Isn’t that what you told me? Regardless, the swim spa is not why this house feels like home.”

“Yea?” Dean answers him gruffly, swiping at his eye and still refusing to turn around.

“Mmm. I have the feeling you’d feel equally strongly about not leaving if Charlie had been renting out the extra space on her kitchen floor in a one-room apartment.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Dean argues. “I got no desire to hear the three of them going at it.” He finally feels in control enough that he won’t end up crying the minute he lays eyes on Cas’ face, so he shifts in the bed, enough to lean back against the headboard and yank Castiel into his lap. “But I see your point.” 

“It’s people that make a house a home, Dean. And you still need to go see yours. If you truly want to come back here after Christmas, we can talk about it. But if you want my opinion, I feel as if this journey is not yet over.” 

Dean studies him for a moment before replying. “You’re weird sometimes, do you know that?” A big smile spreads across Castiel’s face, and he leans down to press his mouth to Dean’s.

“Yes,” he says very seriously after pulling back. “I have it on good authority that you love my weirdness.” That gets a grin from Dean, and he takes the opportunity to tackle Castiel down, pinning him to the bed. They don’t even try to go to sleep for at least another hour, and when they finally do, Dean doesn’t feel quite so restless anymore.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Charlie's Place](https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/7919653?location=Denver%2C%20CO&adults=2&check_in=2019-12-16&check_out=2019-12-21&source_impression_id=p3_1564981089_NKOyaw9YoQ33pxOK&s=qj2cPVie) in Denver, if you're interested. 
> 
> [El Tovar](https://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging/el-tovar-hotel/), the hotel at the Grand Canyon. I stayed here, it was pretty sweet.
> 
> [El Rancho](https://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g45938-d2203861-Reviews-El_Rancho_Motel-Ely_Nevada.html), Dean's favorite accommodations so far, just gonna go ahead and link you to TripAdvisor because it's hilarious.
> 
> [Gabe's Casino Hotel](http://www.prospectorhotel.us/) :)
> 
> Dinosaur Memorial Park is real, and it is really in Jensen, Utah, which was somehow actually on their way and not a detour at all?!?!
> 
> Next time... it all comes together... *waves hands mysteriously a la the penguins in Madagascar*
> 
> EDIT: In case anyone cares, I actually have tracked all the travel time/distance/dates between stops, the ones before this are pretty much worked into the chapter, but here are these:  
> New Orleans to Austin, Tx - 7.5 hours- leave sunday. 2 nights (leave the 3rd)  
> Austin, Tx to Clovis, NM (just over state line) 7.5 hrs (4th), Grand Canyon (2 O/N) (9 hrs) to Las Vegas, NV - 4 hours (3 nights in vegas, leave the 9th).  
> Las Vegas to Yosemite National Park, CA - 7.5 hours (3 nights, leave the 12th).  
> Yosemite to Salt Lake City - (drive 5 hours, O/N in Ely, NV) - stay 2 nights leave the 15th).  
> SLC to Denver, Co - 8.5 hrs (3.5 to Dinosaur National Memorial O/N, leave 16th).
> 
> Also feel free to HMU if there’s a specific scene from any of these locations you WISH we had seen, and maybe it’ll appear in a time stamp. MAYBE, I make no promises ;)


	7. Home is Where You Make It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise ending! Or maybe not? lol. I hope y'all enjoy the resolution and thank you again for coming along on this journey. All of your comments have been super encouraging and supportive and I REALLY appreciate it. <3
> 
> Warnings for explicit content and brief hypothermia, also sappiness.

_Somewhere in Northeastern Colorado_

_Four Days Until Christmas_

Castiel and Dean’s goodbyes to Dorothy, Rowena, and especially Charlie, are just as difficult as Dean expected them to be. He even has a moment where he pulls Cas aside while packing up the car and argues about staying _one_ more night, citing that they don’t _really_ need two full days to complete the ten-hour trek to Sioux Falls, that they could totally do it in one. Castiel gently reminds him that traffic exists and that they’re due for snow, which is easily the most persuasive argument he could have made. The Impala isn’t exactly built for fording through any more than a light coating.

“Besides,” Castiel adds, “You wanted to get home by the twenty-third so you could put up the tree. That’s the day after tomorrow.” 

Begrudgingly, Dean admits that he’s right, and finishes loading up the car.

Leaving is difficult, period, but letting go of Charlie is the kind of painful Dean couldn’t have anticipated until it happened. He’s known the girl for less than a week, and somehow she’s become like a sister to him. A loud, annoying, sarcastic, calls-him-on-his-shit little sister, so basically, a lot like Jo, and Dean can’t help but want to protect her. His family has always been close, but living away from them has never been hard because he _knows_ they’re only a phone call or fourteen-hour drive away. But that knowledge is based on an entire lifetime of having each other’s backs, something he and Charlie just haven’t built yet. The fear that their fast friendship will fade once they’re out of each other’s sight is nearly paralyzing. 

In the end, Dean puts his car in gear, driving away from what may have been the happiest week of his life thus far. He feels a _tiny_ bit better when he notices that Charlie’s already filled his inbox with a crap ton of gifs and twenty emojis before he and Cas have even reached the end of the block. The smile those bring quells Dean’s rising sadness, at least for the time being. 

“On the bright side,” Castiel says conversationally, doing Dean the courtesy of gazing out the window while he blinks and swipes at his eyes, “This will give you an excuse to establish the Kingdom of Moondoor, Sioux Falls Chapter. Then you can challenge Charlie’s guild to a battle.” That makes Dean laugh despite himself, and he squeezes Castiel’s hand in thanks.

“Should have jacked that costume,” Dean muses wistfully, unprepared for Castiel to turn his head and flash him a devious smile. “Wait… seriously?!” 

“You can thank Charlie later,” Castiel tells him.

“ _You_ can thank Charlie when it’s on our motel room floor,” Dean retorts and Castiel’s smile gets bigger.

“Yes,” he says. “I believe I will. Also, that sounds like an excellent way for us to shake these blues later tonight.” 

And maybe Dean _could_ have made the drive home to South Dakota in one day, but there’s no way he’s missing out on everything Cas’ voice promises to deliver _._ He drives _exactly_ four and a half hours and then pulls off the highway at the very first sign for a motel he sees. And that decision is definitely, one hundred percent about getting laid, and not at all about missing Charlie or delaying the inevitable official end to their trip. 

Not _one_ bit. 

***

Cas’ fingers are deft where they trace down Dean’s spine, curious and affectionate at the same time, his right hand huge and sure as it grips Dean’s hip, firm but not tight enough to leave marks. Castiel makes a little satisfied noise as he thrusts, the tips of his fingers leaving the dip at the bottom of Dean’s spine and reappearing like ghosts where Cas is _clearly_ getting off on watching himself disappear inside Dean’s body. His touch is surprising, electric and unexpected. Down on all fours facing the wrong way on the bed, Dean valiantly puts his last hopes into his forearms to keep him upright, but it’s a losing battle. 

Their rented motel room has two windows; one facing the parking lot and one facing an empty field behind the low-slung building. While Dean made sure to close the curtains framing the one that looks out over the lot, he also threw caution to the wind and left the other one open. At the time, he figured maybe he and Cas could catch the sunset, might be romantic or something to lay on the bed and watch it together. But as the late afternoon sky melted into evening, the view from below has remained nothing but disappointingly grey. 

When Castiel presses two fingers into the space just behind Dean’s balls, he finally throws in the towel on staying semi-upright with a loud, breathy groan, dropping his head to the ( _thankfully clean-appearing)_ sheets. He lets the side of his face absorb the impact of Cas’ slow, deep thrusts and just rides the waves of pleasure and happiness that always come with being close to him. Dazedly, Dean stares out the window as his orgasm creeps up on him, Castiel finally wrapping the hand that’s not holding his hip firmly around his cock to bring him off. He drapes himself across Dean’s back, head between his shoulders. And Cas is bendy, but that position can’t be all that comfortable so Dean appreciates the effort, and does his best to show it with the noises he’s making. Cas’ dick presses against his prostate from the inside as his wrist flicks, bringing his palm to brush across the head of Dean’s own and Dean comes, smooth and relaxed and like cresting over the top of a hill on a bicycle, easy and free. 

Castiel straightens up after that and Dean stays down, smiling like an idiot as he luxuriates in post-orgasm bliss and continues to stare out the window at the darkening sky. When Castiel finishes inside of him, it’s with swiftly-closing eyes and a deliriously exhausted mind that Dean absently notices, it’s starting to snow. 

***

Having fallen asleep at a ridiculously early hour thanks to the prolactin and oxytocin coursing through his system, Dean wakes with a start to a pitch-black room and a snoring Castiel somewhere in the neighborhood of three AM the next morning. However annoyed he is to be awake, that feeling is almost immediately overridden by a swelling sense of satisfaction and warmth at seeing Castiel, bed-headed and peaceful, still fast asleep at his side and unburdened by any nightmares. Resisting the urge to be grossly affectionate and kiss the top of Cas’ head before leaving the bed, Dean rolls the other way and grabs his phone from the nightstand instead.

There are three missed texts waiting for him. The first is from his mother, asking what sorts of things Castiel likes to drink so that she can stock the fridge, and also warning him that he better not bail _or_ have lost Cas somewhere along the way. In his reply, Dean apologizes for not answering her sooner before shooting over a list. He carefully doesn’t dwell too much on the fact that he knows immediately exactly the drinks Castiel prefers, _and_ the way he takes them, in pretty much any situation he can think of. His mother doesn’t need to know that, though. 

The second text is from Charlie, a sad face emoji, presumably related to Dean not messaging her back before passing out like he’d promised. He shoots her two eggplants, a droplet emoji, plus three Zs and is only remiss that he can’t be there to see the scrunched-face reaction those get. 

Surprisingly, the last message is from Cas. Well, it’s a message Dean’s phone sent to itself that’s _signed_ “Cas,” so, Occam’s razor. 

_Pizza in the fridge. Love you. Cas._

Unsure whether he’s _more_ excited that Cas ordered them food while he slept or more disturbed that he hadn’t woken up for its delivery, Dean makes his way over to the battered minifridge stuffed underneath the kitchenette counter and opens it up. Inside, there’s not only a box of half-eaten Meat Lovers’ pizza but a six-pack of beer that’s only missing two bottles. Cas is a goddamn hero. 

While he waits for the slices to warm inside the microwave, Dean creeps over to the window facing the parking lot and peeks through. Unfortunately, the thick darkness outside and the motel’s apparent inability to afford any exterior lighting basically has him blinking back at his own reflection, unable to see any further out. 

The microwave beeps and Dean hustles over to silence it before the noise can disturb Cas. He grabs one of the slices and winces as the melted cheese scalds his fingers, stuffing a generous third of it inside his mouth anyway. “ _Hot,”_ he hisses, chewing awkwardly with his mouth open to relieve the burning as he drops the slice back onto its plate and swigs his beer instead. Resigned to waiting for his dinner to cool before attempting to inhale it again, he wanders over to the door and opens it, wanting to get a real look at the winter weather situation outside.

 _It can’t be that bad,_ Dean thinks. _Even if there are a few inches on the ground, the plows will have it cleared by morning._

But when he opens the door, thick, fluffy snow tumbles in from where it had piled up in drifts against the building, landing softly on his bare feet. A snap of winter air whips painfully across his naked chest, instantly pebbling his nipples and eliciting a hell of a shiver. Probably looking like a cartoon character in how far his jaw drops, Dean gapes out at the winter wonderland sprawling before his eyes. The snow is at least a foot deep in the lowest areas, and the Impala is barely visible, buried somewhere beneath a series of particularly aggressive drifts. 

“Oh, shit,” Dean says.

***

The entire day winds up a wash. Dean liberates a snow shovel from the motel’s rental office and manages to dig out his Baby and then a path out of the lot by hand. Unfortunately, that’s as far as he gets. Apparently, the outskirts of North Platte, Nebraska do _not_ have their shit together when it comes to managing inclement weather and its effects on the roadways, which is strange because Nebraska is basically the arctic in the middle of winter. Consequently, the roads back to the highway remain not even remotely passable, at least not for someone driving a ‘67 Chevy Impala. 

Fuming and furious, Dean ignores his aching limbs as he paces the motel room angrily, mad at himself for letting sex distract him and worried that he’s going to let his family (and Cas) down by missing Christmas. “What a fucking way to round out this trip,” he grumbles out loud, pulling anxiously at his sweaty, spiky hair before flopping down onto the ancient sofa. The cushions collapse under his weight, and Dean uses that as an excuse to sink into them and mope. He knows that he _should_ get up and get a shower, _should_ lay down and grab a catnap, _should_ call his parents and warn them that he and Cas might arrive a little later than planned. Instead, Dean sits exactly where he is and feels sorry for himself. 

Castiel watches him curiously from his seat on the bed across the room. Dean pointedly ignores him. His skin clammy and gross, Dean tugs at where his t-shirt is stuck fast to his chest, still damp from being trapped under his heavy coat while he busted his ass outside. Unbothered by his (mentally and physically) disheveled state, Castiel shoves himself up off the bed, climbs into his lap, and laces his fingers together behind Dean’s neck.

“Hey,” Dean grunts, not exactly in the mood but also not exactly opposed to being coddled, either. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says softly. Cas’ hands knead at the sore muscles in Dean’s biceps, and against his better judgment, Dean starts to relax back into the couch. 

“Nothing to fuckin’ eat here,” he grunts. 

“I’ll walk to the sandwich shop down the street,” Castiel offers. “It’s next door to the liquor store.” 

“Too cold. And wet.” 

“Then you’ll just have to warm me up when I return.” Dean soon realizes Cas is serious when he gets up off of his lap and starts shoving his feet into his boots. “Cas, don’t bother. We can eat vending machine spoils.” 

Castiel snorts. “There is no way that you actually want to eat chips and a snickers bar after all that shoveling.” He kisses Dean and purloins his wallet off of the table with skillful fingers. “I’ll be back.” Before Dean can protest further, the door is slamming behind him. Dean sighs and closes his eyes, resting them for what he fully intends to be only a couple of moments. 

The next thing he registers is the door opening, a freezing blast of air, and the smell of toasted sandwiches wafting through the room. Dean’s stomach rumbles in response, and suddenly, Cas seems like a damn genius, once again. “Have I ever told you you’re my hero?” Dean says as he rubs at his tired eyes. But when he opens them fully and registers the situation in front of him, he’s out his seat in a flash. Taking the bags from Castiel’s stiff hands as he stands there shivering wildly, Dean’s forehead wrinkles in concern. “Jesus, Cas,” he says. “What the hell happened?”

Castiel’s lips are blue-tinged and his fingers are pale, at least the parts Dean can see poking out of the sleeves of his coat. At least he’d finally let Dean buy him a warm winter one back in Denver, or Dean hates to think where Cas might be now, unconscious in a ditch while he sat here and napped. Cas’ lips tremble as he attempts a smile and a casual shrug. “C-closed,” he manages, teeth chattering. “K-kept w-walking. F-found another sh-shop.” 

Huffing half in annoyance at Cas’ stubbornness and half from the building fear that Cas is actually hypothermic and in danger, Dean pulls off his coat and then sits him down on the bed to work on his boots. When Cas is down to just socks, jeans and flannel, Dean tugs him up again and leads him into the bathroom, closing the door behind them and turning the shower on to hot. “You’re an idiot, Cas,” he declares. “Neither of us needed you to trade in your toes for a damn sandwich.” He strips Cas as he talks, averting his eyes so that Castiel doesn’t see the concern and fear shining through. Cas’ skin is cold all over, and his limbs are stiff and hard to move. His toes actually do seem okay, and Dean feels grateful he had those good, solid boots on. 

“I w-was h-homeless,” a shaking Castiel reminds him, with some effort. “W-walking in the s-snow is h-hardly the m-most d-dangerous thing I’ve d-done.”

Dean pauses and stands up in Cas’ space, narrowing his eyes. “I picked you up before it ever got this cold in Columbus,” he argues, and Castiel half-shrugs, half-shivers in a way that wracks his whole body. “Come on,” Dean sighs, wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist and helping him into the shower, which is now filling the room with steam. Dean adjusts the temperature and dances them around so that Cas is the one under most of the spray. His face is already back to normal colors and the shivers seem to be slightly less violent, which is probably a good sign. All the same, Dean wraps Castiel up in a hug that presses them flush from shoulder to groin, doing his best to speed along the process. 

And likewise, Castiel melts into Dean, keeping his arms tucked in close to his chest, and he’s quiet, which like, chills Dean to the bone, no pun intended. He’s become used to Castiel’s almost constant stream of sarcasm, his eternal amusement at poking fun at Dean, and the strange quips and questions he has about the most random things. Dean finds himself clutching Cas tightly, one arm around his back and one in his hair, suddenly imagining the worst. He finally has to step back and take in Cas’ now shower-flushed face for himself, because every time his eyes slip closed, all he can see is his back, disappearing forever into the endless white of a blizzard. 

It’s for that reason that Dean stops Cas as he leans in for a kiss, clearly unaware of Dean’s inner turmoil. Holding Cas at arm’s length by his biceps, Dean drops his head and makes a frustrated noise, unsure if he’s more annoyed at himself or more upset about Cas’ lack of regard for his own safety. By the time he looks up, he can see that Castiel is starting to get the picture, though. 

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says quietly, but even he can hear the hint of despair lacing his voice. The water still rains down over Castiel’s wet hair as he meets Dean’s eyes, looking for all the world like a scolded child.

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” he replies. “I hate to see you so stressed.”

“ _Losing_ you would stress me out a hell of a lot more,” Dean blurts out. “Cas.” 

“Yes?”

Dean takes a deep breath and blows it out, summoning all his courage. “After Christmas, after… you know. You’re gonna stay with me, right? You and me, we’re gonna find somewhere to live, we’re gonna try and make a life together. I know we… it hasn’t been that long, and we’ve talked our way around this conversation a hundred times. Not to mention the fact that I’m kinda homeless myself right now... But Cas, if you’re gonna leave... I guess what I’m saying is, I’d rather know now.” He stops babbling abruptly and waits, watching with trepidation as Castiel’s brows knit together in confusion and possibly concern. 

But then Castiel takes Dean’s face in his big, warm hands and kisses him firmly on the mouth. “I’m not leaving,” he says, shaking his head. “How could I leave you?” His small smile and the genuine sincerity in his voice causes something to release inside Dean’s chest, like a pressure valve finally wrenched open. 

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to lean against Castiel’s. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said otherwise.” 

Castiel kisses him again and wraps arms around his neck. “I’d rather be homeless with you, than in out of the rain with anyone else.” 

Dean laughs, slightly giddy, thinks about making a joke about how corny that was, and then refrains. “Me, too,” he says simply. 

***

Out of necessity, they spend another night in the motel, eating the sandwiches Castiel tried to sacrifice his health for while wrapped up in blankets and tucked underneath the covers of the bed. Castiel’s toes are like ice against Dean’s calves, but he doesn’t complain once. Later, the two of them exchange slow, intimate handjobs, tangled around each other’s limbs and so close that they’re sharing air. It’s intense, and Dean can’t help but feel as if something’s shifted between them once again. He tells Castiel over and over that he loves him, like a record with a scratch in it, but Castiel never seems to mind, always saying it right back as if the words were already on the tip of his tongue. Sated and spent, this time both of them fall asleep at an obscenely early hour to the sounds of plows finally passing by on the streets outside. When they wake up again, rested and raring to go at four in the morning, the streets are finally clear, and it’s time to move on. 

***

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

_December 23rd_

The last five or so hours of Dean and Cas’ over-month-long road trip fly by faster than any yet. Before he knows it, Dean’s turning left onto a nostalgically familiar Route 29 heading north, a road he’s driven so many times he could probably navigate it in his sleep. Skirting the outer edge of the city, Dean finds his way easily to the salvage yard located on the outskirts of the western side. 

Castiel’s quiet again, has been ever since they crossed over into South Dakota from Nebraska, though he taps away at Dean’s phone talking to Charlie and Gabriel as if everything’s normal. Dean wonders if it’s nerves, or the trip ending, or a bit of both, the way it feels for him. The hard truth is, everything _isn’t_ normal, they both know it, and despite declaring their intent to stay together in the future, the air between them remains tense. Dean supposes that’s to be expected. Even after laying all of their cards on the table, things are inevitably still going to change between them and whatever comes next is still going to be a major adjustment. There’s also the matter of figuring out _where_ they’re going to live, _what_ they’re going to _do,_ not to mention the looming “meet the family” nonsense that’s leaving Dean floundering like he’s back in high school, bringing his prom date home for his mom’s stamp of approval. 

He’s warned Castiel already about the condition of the salvage yard and his parents’ worn but homey house. Regardless, Dean’s eyes can’t help darting to the right as he pulls between the iron gates and weaves between towering stacks of junked cars, waiting for some sign of scorn or judgment. But Castiel doesn’t flinch, just clicks off the phone and stuffs it inside his pocket as if it belongs to him. Dean really needs to get the guy his own. 

As they pull up in front of his childhood home, the tires of the Impala crunch over the layer of frosted snow (thankfully, nowhere near as deep as Nebraska was hit) covering the ground. His parents’ house looks frayed around the edges but welcoming, a string of colored Christmas lights stapled sloppily to the porch roof and wound down one of the columns that Dean suspects Jo is responsible for. 

Suddenly, he can’t wait to get inside, can’t wait to hug his mom, get slapped upside the head by his dad, and be teased mercilessly by his little sister. When he looks over, Cas is smiling at him warmly, and he reaches over to take his hand and squeeze it.

“Are you ready?” 

“Are _you?”_ Castiel returns, eyebrows raised, and Dean nods. Despite his lingering fears and the uncertainty of the future, there’s nothing he wants more right now than to see Castiel inside _his_ childhood home, in the middle of _his_ familiar, safe space, surrounded by their family. 

“Yea,” Dean says, staring into his eyes. “Never been more sure.” 

Castiel lets go of his hand and exits the car first, Dean following. The slamming of the Impala’s doors draws attention to their arrival, and Dean looks up as he steps out to see his mom standing on the front porch, a dishrag in her hands. They stare at each other for a minute and then Ellen’s tossing the rag and Dean’s flying into her arms like he’s five years old again. 

“Welcome home, son,” she says into his ear, hugging him fiercely around the shoulders and patting his back. For whatever reason, Dean feels his eyes filling with tears and has to blink them back, leaning down to press his face against his mom’s shoulder. 

“Dean!” Dean hears the screen door bang open behind his mom before he sees Jo appear, her blonde hair blowing in the cold December wind and a huge smile plastered across her face. She stands up on her tiptoes to claim Dean’s empty shoulder, turning the hug into a group one, and Dean’s heart feels disgustingly full. 

“Hey brat,” he says as he pulls away, ruffling her hair as she scowls and punches him in the arm. 

“Play nice, you two,” Ellen scolds them.

“We aren’t five,” Jo retorts, crossing her arms. 

Ellen raises her eyebrows, hip-checking her daughter with more strength than her small frame belies, causing Jo to go stumbling across the porch. “Then act like it,” she insists and Dean snorts.

As the three of them reunite, Castiel stands a respectful few feet away in front of the car, looking down and fiddling awkwardly with the zipper on his jacket. Realizing he’s being a shitty host and an even worse boyfriend, Dean quickly moves away from his family to thread an arm around Cas’ waist, tugging him forward. “Mom, Jo,” he says. “This is Castiel.” 

“‘Bout time we met properly,” Ellen declares, stepping forward and dragging Castiel into as crushing a hug as the one she’d given Dean. “Glad to have you here, Cas,” she says, slapping his shoulder affectionately as she releases him. Jo’s next, flinging her arms around Cas’ neck without hesitation as soon as her mom gives her room to do so. “We hug in this house,” Ellen offers when Castiel appears flustered and surprised by all of the attention, his cheeks turning pink. “Well, except for Bobby. Don’t hug him, he’s liable to stab you with a fork. But the rest of us, for sure.” 

“Thanks for keeping this asshole alive,” Jo says after letting Castiel go and gesturing towards Dean. 

“And I’m suddenly remembering why I left,” Dean grumbles and Jo attacks him, forcing Dean to scrap with her, both of them slip-sliding across the frozen ground until Jo gets him in a headlock and starts digging her knuckles into his scalp.

“Say it!” She yells gleefully.

“Fuck you,” Dean replies, his words muffled by Jo’s puffy thermal coat as he struggles to free himself. 

“Language!” Ellen scolds. “Is this really how you want Cas to think of us?” 

Jo twists her arm a little and really digs her fingers into Dean’s head, smirking from where Dean can barely see her face as he tries to look up. “If he’s really spent a month straight locked in a car with Dean, he won’t think anything of it,” she retorts. 

“We weren’t _locked in,_ per se, but—” 

“Alright,” Dean yelps, almost losing his balance as his feet skid and search for traction on the ice. He’s out of practice. “Uncle, you win!”

“Say it,” Jo demands, unrelenting.

Whining a little, Dean stomps his feet and grunts again when Jo digs into his scalp. “Alright! Fine. Dean Smith keeps a ruler by the bed and every morning when he wakes up he—”

“Okay! Alright, enough, Joanna Beth,” Ellen commands, snapping her fingers and rolling her eyes as a cackling Jo finally lets Dean go, disgruntled and looking as if he’s gone three rounds with a bear and not a tiny girl half his size. 

Dean runs a hand through his destroyed hair, attempting (and failing) to piece it back into some semblance of order, using the shiny hood of the Impala as a makeshift mirror. “You’re lucky you’re a girl,” he grunts. “‘S’why I go easy on you.” He stumbles a little and catches Castiel hiding a smirk behind his hand. “Don’t you start,” he warns, finger pointed in Cas’ direction. 

“Hey!” Everyone turns towards the sound of a gruff male voice to see Bobby sticking his head out the front door. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. Are you idjits having a competition to see who can freeze to death first? Some free advice, don’t come cryin’ to me when your toes fall off.” 

“That’s not advice,” Dean ventures, and Bobby cracks a smile, probably against his will if his retreat into the house and the slamming door behind him have anything to say about it. Despite his demeanor, though, when Dean hauls his suitcases inside and drops them just over the threshold (so that Jo trips on them) Bobby’s waiting to hand him a beer and yank him into a hug. The others file in around them, Ellen patting Dean’s back as she goes by.

“Good to see you, boy,” Bobby grunts. He steps back and sizes Dean up as the latter takes off his coat, hanging it on the hook by the door and motioning for Cas to do the same. “You’re lookin’ sharp,” Bobby says, raising his eyebrows at Dean’s flannel, which looks an awful lot like his own. “And that’s a hell of a car.”

“It’s Cas’,” Dean admits, his cheeks heating. “The shirt, not the car.”

“Cas,” Bobby repeats with a nod, shifting his attention and holding out a hand to shake Cas’ offered one firmly. “You’re good looking,” he observes.

“Dad!” Dean protests. 

“What? You can’t tell us you picked up a homeless guy and expect us not to wonder what kind of Gary Busey-looking mess he might turn out to be. No offense.” He shrugs at Castiel who grins back.

“None taken,” he replies, amusement lacing his voice. 

“You saw him over Facetime,” Dean mutters as Bobby leads Castiel away towards the kitchen, already asking him how he feels about model trains and warning him to “assume the decor is loaded,” which is Bobby’s way of warning people not to touch his guns. Dean watches them go feeling slightly overwhelmed. He hasn’t seen his father go out of his way to speak more than two words to someone he doesn’t know that weren’t one hundred percent necessary for his survival in _years_. Lack of tact aside, Dean can tell that Bobby is really trying, and that means Dean was exactly the right amount of obvious over the phone regarding how he feels about Castiel. 

“Bring your bags upstairs,” Ellen calls from the kitchen, where she’s pulling a roast out of the oven. “We’re having company for dinner.” 

“What, the two of us aren’t interesting enough for you?” Dean yells back. “Don’t tell me it’s playdate boy.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you. And don’t holler across the house, Dean,” Ellen replies loudly, raising her voice even further at the end to scold him. Dean grins as he stoops down to gather up his and Cas’ things. It’s good to be home. 

***

The Wessons have only been inside the Smith household for all of thirty-three seconds when the shit hits the fan. In retrospect, Dean has to wonder how he didn’t put _some_ of it together, but the more he tries to latch on to whatever pieces he must have ignored, the more it all slips through his fingers. Eventually, he decides he just has to let it go, for the sake of his own sanity. But that’s easier said than done. 

Jo answers the front door when the bell rings, everyone else remaining in the kitchen in solidarity with Ellen, who’s putting the finishing touches on a few side dishes and stubbornly refusing anyone else’s help to do so. Dean’s eyes are glued to Cas, watching him laugh at something Bobby said, blending in seamlessly with the Smiths as if he’s always been one of them. The fond smile quirking up the side of Dean’s mouth vanishes instantly though when John and Mary Wesson enter the kitchen alongside their son. Not so much in relation to them, but more in concern for the way Castiel’s eyes go wide and his face turns pale. Cas straightens up from where he’s been leaning against the counter and almost misses completely when he tries to put his beer down. Dean catches his arm at the last minute and relieves him of the bottle.

“Sam?” Castiel’s voice is instantly full of disbelief and Dean’s eyes dart around, following Cas’ gaze to land on the tall, handsome, shaggy-haired man that’s just come through the door behind the two older people who are presumably his parents. Dean’s stomach swoops. 

“You!” Dean blurts out, definitely accusing, though he’s not entirely sure of what. His confused brain does flip flops trying to piece together how _Cas_ might know the dude from the IT department at Sandover who hit on him in the elevator. Of course, his addled brain makes the wrong connection, not that that stops him from voicing it. “Ex?” Dean asks with far too much surety, glancing over at Cas and doing his best claw his way back to cool and casual, failing miserably if Castiel’s expression is anything to go by.

“No, Dean,” he replies patiently. “This is—”

“I’m straight,” Sam interjects helpfully.

Dean furrows his brow and shoots a look up at the guy’s face, fighting the urge to make a rude comment about his absurd height. “You said that I looked familiar,” he probes. “In the elevator. That’s a pick-up line.” 

“You _did_ look familiar! We played together as kids,” Sam explains, exasperated. 

“Oh,” Dean says, suddenly recalling the conversation he’d had with Ellen all those weeks ago telling him that very thing. He laughs a little awkwardly and takes a long swig from his beer as everyone’s stares dart from person to person across their weird little trio.

“So...” Ellen thankfully decides to take control of this wayward conversation where Dean has abjectly failed, coming to stand beside Castiel and laying a hand on his bicep. She gestures with the one that’s still free between Cas and Sam. “You two know each other, too?” 

“Sam helped me out when I was in a bit of a bind back in Columbus,” Castiel says carefully, and Sam nods.

Eternally smooth, a lightbulb clicks on in Dean’s head and he immediately shares his conclusions with the class. “Oh!” He exclaims, “ _This_ is the employee friend you stayed with while you were homeless!” 

Castiel sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Yes, and thank you for making sure everyone knew that, Dean,” he says, though he doesn’t look mad or ashamed, more so just embarrassed at Dean’s lack of tact. Apparently, it runs in the family.

“Sorry,” he says guiltily, and Castiel shoots him a reassuring half-smile. Still, Dean has more questions. “How the hell did a CEO come to be friends with a lowly IT guy, anyway? No offense,” Dean adds, though Sam just blinks and looks back at him like he’s a few tools short of a toolshed. Whatever.

“Uh,” Cas replies intelligently, and Ellen comes to his rescue once again, grabbing a full six-pack from the fridge and shoving it into Bobby’s hands. She grabs two more beers, handing one to Mary and keeping one for herself before steering the whole group out of the room.

“Let’s give the boys some space,” she suggests. “Sounds as if they’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Bobby, I’m sure you’re dying to drag John downstairs and work on those damn trains anyway.”

“I’m hungry,” Bobby protests.

“I want to listen,” Jo declares, grinning, but Ellen ignores them both, grabbing Jo’s hand to pull her through the kitchen door. And just like that, they’re gone, and Dean, Cas, and Sam are alone.

Sam shakes his head of floppy brown hair like he’s trying to sober himself up and completely ignores Dean, making a beeline for Castiel and pulling him into a hug. Surprised, Castiel stands there somewhat awkwardly for a moment before closing his arms around Sam’s back as well. “Hello, Sam,” he says. “It’s good to see you, too.” Dean looks on at this whole exchange with his eyebrows raised, fingers clenching white around his beer and still fighting the urge to knock the big Sasquatch away from Castiel. Straight or not, he’s not a fan of how this _Sam_ character is eyeing him up. Dean’s already decided that this dude is going to have to share something _damn_ interesting for him to want to stick around and hang out with him. 

“Cas,” Sam says, pulling back to hold him at arms length by his shoulders. “I’ve been trying to find you for months! Where the hell have you been?” 

Casting a glance at Dean, Castiel hedges, looking for all the world like a kid caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. “Oh, I… with Dean?” He offers, and even Dean knows that doesn’t add up.

“Yea, for the last month and change,” he interjects, causing Sam to finally acknowledge his existence with a surprised look. 

“Well, what about before that?” Sam presses. “Dude, I checked all of the homeless shelters, tent cities, the hospitals. You vanished, like you’d never existed.” 

Castiel shifts awkwardly on his feet. “I sometimes went by different names at those places. Clarence, Emmanuel. I met a few… unsavory characters and didn’t want them finding me. I swear, Sam, I wasn’t hiding from you. I had no idea you were looking.” 

“Wait,” Dean says, holding up a hand and then pointing a finger in Sam’s direction. “Cas, you said he knew you were leaving. You said he _let_ you leave, so he could go be…” Dean waves his hand around haphazardly. “All married bliss or whatever.” 

Looking immensely guilty, Castiel averts his eyes and Sam does a double-take. “What? No,” he replies defensively. “I mean, first of all, Madison and I were on the rocks before Cas even showed up. Not to mention, I never would have left a friend homeless so I could, what? Bang in the kitchen whenever I wanted? That’s crazy. I woke up one morning and he was gone, sleeping bag and all.” 

“You stole his sleeping bag?” 

“No!” Castiel replies defensively. “He gave it to me.” He pauses and then, “The sleeping bag is what concerns you most here?”

“I gave it to you because my linens weren’t exactly top notch, Cas. I was in law school, I was poor as hell. I meant for you to sleep under it on my couch, not on the street,” Sam tells him, and Dean has to admit, the guy’s puppy dog eyes are _good._ Had he been in Cas’ position, he doesn’t think he could have stomached being the reason those came out. Dean reconsiders his snap judgment of the giant crowding his kitchen, considering the new information that he hadn’t actually been cool with leaving Cas to fend for himself on the street. _Maybe he’s alright._ He still can’t remember playing with the dude as a kid, though. “You were—you _are —_my friend,” Sam is saying. “I would have put you first.”

“I know that," Castiel replies softly. “That’s why I had to leave. It wasn’t fair to you.” 

“Stupidly stubborn,” Sam says with a shake of his head. “And anyway. if you’d have just _talked_ to me, I could have told you that I needed you to stick around.” 

The lines on Castiel’s forehead deepen, and he cocks his head to the right. _Not the time,_ Dean warns his dick, who finds the quirk extremely adorable. _So not the time._

“Needed me to… what for?” 

Sam hesitates and shoots a glance at Dean. “We should sit down,” he says. “But uh, I’m gonna need some help explaining.” The three of them migrate over to Bobby’s old wooden kitchen table, Dean taking the spot in front of where he’d carved his and Jo’s initials into the surface the better part of twenty years ago. Sam pulls out his phone and starts typing, so Dean reconsiders and gets up to grab three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. While he doesn’t have any idea of what specifically Sam is about to say, the man’s demeanor sort of seems to indicate they might need it. When he drops Cas’ glass in front of him, he leans down to kiss behind his ear, something soft and reassuring, and Castiel reaches out to squeeze his hand in response. He keeps ahold of it firmly even after Dean sits back down next to him.

“So,” Dean ventures, filling the silence that’s descended as Sam continues to concentrate on his phone. “How’d you two crazy kids come to be friends, anyway? This wasn’t some kind of _Secretary_ situation, was it?” 

“Sam worked in the IT department,” Castiel replies in confusion. “He was not a secretary.”

“No, Cas, that’s… you know what? Okay. Good to know,” Dean says, patting Cas’ thigh with both of their hands.

“Once again,” Sam adds, still not looking up from his phone, “I’m straight. And that’s a terrible reference.” 

“At least someone got it,” Dean mutters, and Castiel squints at him. 

“The truth is that I’ve never been very technologically inclined,” Castiel admits. “It’s a big part of the reason why Zachariah was able to frame me the way that he did. Sam did an excellent job of helping me with the basics. I only wish I’d known to ask him to keep an eye on more. I put my trust in the wrong people,” Castiel finishes quietly, looking down at his lap. “I’d hoped to bring Sam on as a lawyer at Sandover once he’d finished his schooling, he was very deserving. I’m afraid I screwed that up for him too.” 

“No worries,” Sam replies distractedly. “Actually, that’s why I was looking for you. Well, that, and I was worried, obviously.” He glances up finally and gives Castiel a pointed look, which he acknowledges with a sad little nod. “So get this,” Sam says, clearing his throat and dropping his phone to the middle of the table. “I have someone, a friend, who’s been trying to help me clear your name. It started out small, just the two of us and some amateur hacking back when I was still in school and you were living with me. That’s why I didn’t tell you, I wasn’t sure it could go anywhere. But Cas,” Sam says excitedly, “There’s a real case here. In fact, this whole thing got me hired at a huge law firm. If we can pull this off, they’re gonna make me junior partner.” 

“Pull… what off?” Castiel replies slowly, and Dean’s heart is suddenly in his throat, almost afraid to hope that he’s hearing what he thinks he is.

Sam grins. “Cas, I needed to find you so that you could testify. If you still want to, that is, and honestly man, I’m really hoping you do, because we’re taking down Sandover, and Roman Enterprises too. You’re not alone, Cas. Zachariah’s been setting his employees up as fall guys for years, you were just his biggest mark. We’ve got a laundry list of charges and even more witnesses ready to speak out against him. We just needed you. And Dean,” Sam acknowledges. “I’ve actually been trying to get in touch with you too, since shortly after you were fired, but you’ve been off the radar. I sent you an email, but then I moved back here. Pretty much by accident, I figured out you were, well, _you,_ and _the_ Dean Smith instead of just _a_ Dean Smith—thank your mom for that, by the way—but by then I figured it’d be easier to get you onboard in person.” He turns to look at Cas. “I didn’t know you were with him.” 

Castiel sits back in his chair, a stunned look on his face, his mouth dropped slightly open but no words making their way out.

“Here,” Sam offers. “Let me call my partner in crime, she can explain some of this better.” He glances apologetically at Dean as he reaches to tap the call button where his phone’s screen is already cued up to a number. “Sorry man, I didn’t have her dig into your case yet, on the off-chance you weren’t interested. Charlie sends me any firings that look suspicious, but doesn’t work her hacker magic unless I give her the go-ahead.” 

The gears in Dean’s head start to turn, but before he can think, _no, it can’t be,_ a familiar face is filling up the screen of Sam’s now-propped up phone and Dean’s not entirely sure he isn’t going to faint. “ _Charlie?!”_ He leans forward, his face blocking out Charlie’s view of Cas and Sam, watching as she blinks in confusion.

“Oh, hey, Dean,” she says. “Listen, can I call you right back, I’m actually waiting for a…” She trails off and Dean watches as she confirms the name at the top of her screen, looking up and then back at him in complete confusion.

“What the banana?!” 

***

So, as it turns out, Sam went to undergrad with Charlie at the University of Denver before being accepted to Capital University School of Law in Columbus, Ohio, where he’d _then_ taken a job at Sandover to pay for school. His bachelor’s degree and Charlie’s contacts in the IT world had gotten him an entry-level gig and surprisingly, he’d been good at it. From there he’d met Cas, and the rest, as they say, is history. 

Charlie’s perhaps more floored than any of them, and far more furious at herself for not making the connection. Apparently, she’s only ever known who “James C. Novak” was by that name, Sam never mentioning that Castiel goes by his middle, and she hadn’t thought much of “Dean Smith” at all. Considering how many Smiths there are in the world, Dean can’t exactly blame her for that. 

Regardless, once she gets over the initial shock, Charlie’s more than happy to spill everything she has on Sandover and Zachariah, although she does take the time to scold Dean for not trusting her enough to loop her in himself. She hand waves his protests about not wanting to involve her before he had an idea of what he’d even _do_ with the information, gleefully informing him that thanks to Sam, that issue is now moot. They shoot the shit back and forth for a while, everyone still in somewhat of a state of shock at the _multiple_ surprising ways their lives are intertwined, before the discussion turns back to the matter at hand.

After that, things get really technical, and as much as Dean does his best to follow, he’s lost about ten minutes in with no hope for recovery. Squeezing Cas’ hand one last time, he excuses himself and leaves the geek squad to their battle plans. 

The air outside is crisp and cold, refreshing after everything Dean’s been hit with over the last hour or so. He grabs his keys and pulls the Impala over into his father’s work garage, popping the hood and burying himself underneath just to mess around. It feels good to get his hands dirty, to let his mind go blank and rest for a time as he tinkers with Baby’s engine. He goes system by system; checking fluid levels and every other thing a good car owner should after an extended time out on the road. While it’s been years since he’s been under the hood of a car, it all comes back to him like clockwork, especially considering that the Impala resembles the kind of cars Bobby raised him working on, not so much the computerized guts most new vehicles boast these days. 

Dean finds that he misses working with his hands like this. It’s relaxing, and it _feels_ productive in a way his desk job never really did. As he tops off the wiper fluid and gives the engine a last satisfied once-over, it occurs to Dean that there’s a career path right here, something he might even be _happy_ pursuing. Not a mechanic, necessarily, but the niche market of restoring classic cars. Hell, he could travel around looking for deals on junkers to bring back and the parts to fix them up with. He briefly wonders why his dad’s never considered expanding his business in the same way, and then quickly remembers, _ah, the Internet._ Well, that’s not going to be a problem for him. Dean wipes his greasy fingers on a rag Bobby has hanging and glances around the junkyard. He can count maybe two cars waiting for repairs, though he remembers the days when people waited over a week _just_ to bring their ride here. The more he looks and the more he thinks, the more he realizes… he might actually be on to something. Something good for both him _and_ his family. He laughs out loud as he wonders if after Charlie’s done saving Castiel’s ass, maybe her skills might come in handy tracking down car parts and deals.

The sharp, cold air finally starts getting to him, his ears feeling stiff enough to break off. Dean heads back up the sagging front porch steps to go back inside, hopefully to cuddle up with Castiel. He takes a last look around and makes a mental note to bring his Dad out and show him the Impala later, toss around some ideas for the future of Smith Salvage Yard. Not that Dean regrets any of his decisions because they led him to Cas, but at the same time, he can’t help but wonder, _what the hell took him so long to come home?_

***

_One Year Later_

Dean leans back against the Impala, checking his phone’s still-dark display before stuffing it into his pocket again. He scans the exterior of the arrivals terminal anxiously, searching faces and bodies for one that’s familiar. Finally, he spots a head full of messy, dark brown hair and blue eyes that crinkle at their corners, squeezing between a mother with a crying toddler and a businessman on a cellphone as he exits through the automatic doors leading out from baggage claim. His dark blue suit, tie, and trenchcoat have him looking almost unrecognizable to the man Dean had met sleeping on the sidewalk just over a year prior, but Dean would know that face anywhere. Overwhelmed with happiness, Dean can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, Castiel’s expression doing just the same as he rushes forward. When he’s within arm’s reach, he drops his bags to the ground without fanfare and flings his arms around Dean’s neck, pressing their mouths together. 

The force of his kiss knocks Dean backward again, the Impala thankfully right there to break their fall. Castiel releases Dean’s lips with a reluctant sigh, and Dean opens his eyes to see Cas’ pools of ocean blue staring right back at him. “Heya, Cas,” he says.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies with a grin. “I missed you.” 

“It’s only been a week,” Dean reminds him.

“A week too long.” 

“Well, it’s over now. How is the board?” 

“Still groveling,” Castiel replies smugly. “Though, while it’s incredibly gratifying, the eggshell-walking and constant praise get old very quickly. I was entirely homesick for your sarcasm and perpetual mockery of my mannerisms.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me,” Dean replies, wiggling his eyebrows and swaying his hips up against Cas’ pelvis. 

“Precisely,” Castiel says, and while they’re not exactly in a place conducive to getting it on, Dean fights a pout over losing Cas’ body pressed up against his own. He vows to get a motel sooner rather than later tonight. “Anyway,” Castiel continues, grabbing his bags and making his way over to the trunk which Dean steps in to open, “My yearly obligation to meet with the board in person is complete, and both Zachariah and Roman’s requests for court appeals have been denied. They are undoubtedly cursing my name from behind bars, and I’m all yours for the foreseeable future, barring someone from Sandover needing my expert advice.”

Dean snorts. “Not touching that one. How’s your new CEO working out? Still glad you gave it up to be the lowly absentee President of the Board?”

“All the money, none of the hassle, you better believe I am.” Castiel smirks. “And Jack is doing very well, thank you for asking. He’s young and enthusiastic, the employees love him and the board members hate him. He’s exactly what that company needs.” 

“Well, I doubt he can do worse than Zachariah. But for whatever it’s worth, I hope he keeps things together enough that you don’t have to fly back out there anytime soon. Phone calls are one thing and Skype sex was fun, but I hate sleeping alone,” Dean admits, going for casual and missing so badly that if he were a gymnast sticking a landing, he’d have a broken leg. 

“I thought you said it was only a week,” Castiel teases, sliding into the passenger’s side of the car as Dean gets in behind the wheel, cheeks aflame. 

“Shut up,” he replies. Just in time, Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He whips it out and waves it at Cas. “That’s Charlie,” he says. “Our itinerary for the next few weeks. She’s got cars and parts to check out in twelve different states.” He looks up and meets Cas’ eyes, raising his eyebrows in question. “What do you say, are you ready for this? Back out on the road again, just you and me?” 

Castiel grabs his hand across the bench seat and kisses his knuckles. “Of course, Dean,” he says. “You know that I’d follow you anywhere.” 

“You’re such a cornball,” Dean grumbles, but he’s smiling as he puts the car in gear and eases it out of its parking spot and onto the highway. “Hey, you wanna swing by home before we head out? Charlie said Sam’s back early from his trip, so it’s a full house. Might be fun.”

“Whatever you want, Dean,” Castiel replies easily. “It’s not as if they won’t be there when we return.” 

“I know,” Dean says, a little defensively. “It’s just, I’m still getting used to having a real home, one that’s full of life and family, not just four walls and a place to plug in my Vitamix. Which, by the way, Sam totally tried to blend a spoon in. Shattered the glass and almost got one of us impaled by flying cutlery.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and pats the Dean’s hand, the one that’s already intertwined with one of his own. “It’s alright, Dean, I know emotions are hard for you.” 

Dean clears his throat. “Yea, well. Some days I just have trouble believing it. Mom, Dad, and Jo are only a car ride away and I get to split time between there and here for work, a job which, by the way, I the opposite of hate. Plus all of my found family is under one roof. Hell, feels like I’ve known Sam forever at this point, like he’s the nerdy little brother I never had. His parents are pretty cool, too.” 

Nodding, Castiel unbuckles his seatbelt and scoots closer, draping an arm around Dean’s shoulders. His trenchcoat scratches at the skin on the back of Dean’s neck. “I know exactly what you mean. Home is where you make it. I will never stop being grateful that you wanted me to make one with you.” 

Ears burning, Dean knocks his head into Cas’ by way of acknowledgment. “Alright, enough chick flick moments,” he says, handing over his phone with Charlie’s itinerary pulled up on the screen. “Where to, co-pilot?” 

Castiel smiles and opens the map.

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Though there will likely be an isolated timestamp or two in the future of some "deleted scenes," like their time in Vegas and the Grand Canyon, specifically. Maybe Austin, because I'm a predictable tool and want to write them visiting FBBC. lmao. Anyway, if you enjoyed this story, please consider sharing (the best way to show you liked something is a rec) or subscribing, I have two bangs posting soon you might like! <3 you all <3
> 
> You can also come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) or [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/), send me a message if you follow me on Tumblr tho so I follow you back - I'm really bad about remembering to otherwise and I like to follow my readers!!


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